


A Light That Never Comes

by ireallyhatecornnuts (CharleyFoxtrot)



Series: A LIGHT THAT NEVER COMES - THE 'VERSE [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Dean as King Of Hell, Demon!Dean, Destiel - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Moral Grey Areas, Resurrection, Seriously the destiel is super-slow-burn, alternate season 10, casefic, casual intersectional feminism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-04-22 02:23:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 116,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/ireallyhatecornnuts
Summary: Alternate Season 10. Updates Thursdays while I have material.“I’m usually a ‘If you want your prayers answered, first you gotta get off your knees’ kind of person. But....“This is the story of the Winchesters. This is the story of how God fucked off to parts unknown and I had to fix his -- andtheir-- fuckups. This is a love story, this is a hate story, this is redemption -- this is a new sort of tale. This is me fixingeverything.“And to get a little meta on you, this is is me, fixing everything you lot in the other universe where this is a TV show got it wrong. This is me making up for bad writing and terrible tropes.“So sit down, kids, I’ve got a tale to tell. And seriously -- y’all ain’t gonnabelievethis shit.”





	1. The Story So Far

This story will be updated every Thursday until I run out of material. 

This is a story that’s been kicking around in my head since 2012.

Specifically, a _character_ , although several of the individual scenes and plot points were retained as well. 

I began this story in November of 2014 as an alternate Season Nine of Supernatural. I had originally intended to make it my NaNoWriMo for that year, as two year previous I’d done Best Years of Our Lives, My Ass for NaNo and it had worked out well.

But I lost my stride mid-November, and then a few months later, decided to make it an alternate Season Ten because the concept of Jessie interacting with Demon!Dean was too delicious to pass up. It is quite literally an alternate season - 25 episodes, all plotted out, in the generalized format of an episode. Some are Monster of the Week episodes; some are heavily plot-relevant. This story is going forward with the idea that, had this happened, Supernatural would have naturally ended after this season.

(If I can finish it, that would be awesome, because there’s also a “movie” that ties everything up nicely, also mostly-plotted-out.)

This story has been outlined since February of 2015. It has a very set direction that is ignoring a lot of shit that happened in Season 10 and beyond. Certain elements I found interesting or good and have incorporated, but over half of this fic? Was written before they even came out. 

A lot of things have happened since February 2015, both in the show and in my life. Things that derailed the writing of this fic. It is still not done. It has not been beta’d. In the meantime the show has gone on and I’ve lost family members and friends. I’ve gone through a divorce. I’ve started school. Shit has happened. If things seem a little disconnected, I apologize.

Things to keep in mind about this fic (spoilers for SPN canon ahead):

\- Ignore Season 10 and beyond.

\- At this point we didn’t know shit about Jimmy or Claire Novak, let alone Amelia Novak.

\- We only just barely met Rowena. We barely know anything about her at this point. 

\- Mary Winchester had not returned at this point in the canon.

\- The British Men of Letters doesn’t exist.

\- Gabriel had not returned yet, let alone been tortured.

\- Lucifer and the alternate realities and Jack haven’t happened and we’re going to pretend they haven’t. I loved Casifer and am to this day in awe of Misha Collins’ acting ability, and I actually like the character of Jack even if his entire conception and gestation were really gross and rapey, but they will not be making an appearance.

\- This will feature a season-long lesbian romance featuring a side-character and an OFC (kinda female, anyway). That’s essentially the only “romance” it deals with; I consider this to be a casefic. While other romantic entanglements are hinted at and discussed, nothing really is planned until the “movie”. If you’re looking for shippy goodness, this is probably not the fic for you.

\- This was before they killed Charlie off, which is approximately when I stopped watching the show live or participating in fandom. In fact, I think the last SPN fic I wrote was, in fact, a oneshot fix-it fic to bring Charlie back to life.

\- Kevin, however, is totally dead.

\- This was also before Missouri’s reappearance or death, or the retcon of her being a hunter. 

\- This is also before the appearance of Donna or the backdoor pilot of Wayward Sisters, which is unfortunate because that’s probably the best episode of SPN I’ve seen in a long time, but alas.

\- There are a fuckton of minor supporting original characters, as this is a “Season” of a TV show. There are also one or two major and semi-major original characters. None of them are Mary Sues, although I can guarantee someone is going to accuse my main OFC of being such. If you’re not into original characters, this is probably not the fic for you.

\- There are a BUNCH of throwbacks to old canon. I extensively researched the timeline of SPN for this fic, and there are a load of characters, references, and inferences with regard to seasons 1 - 9 in here. I am actually rather pleased with how well I did manage to hold to continuity; I think I’ve done a better job than the show writers at remembering shit. But that said, I will probably either stretch, break, or bend the canon, or misremember shit. It happens; I’m only human.

\- In this fic, a Knight of Hell cannot be cured using the demon cure. I think that Cain would have done so himself if he’d been able to.

\- I have the boys leaving the country at least once, and I’ve worked some original characters in who are very strongly based on friends and family members, either with their permission or renamed. I also at one point DO work myself in as a minor character because why the hell not? That’s the closest I come to a self-insert; a minor background character who provides intel. Once again, if this bothers you, nothin’ I can do about it, buddy.

If you think you can stomach this, I hope you enjoy the show. 


	2. Episode One - New Kid In Town

** Episode One - New Kid In Town **

_New kid in town, got fancy clothes_

_Old T-bird car, baby, you can tell he knows_

_He said, “Where is all the action in this town?”_

_Starts workin’ on the women, comes on real slick_

_Heard enough about sin, girl -- gonna make it stick_

_What makes him so special anyhow?_

_You know you can’t have fire without the flame_

_Can’t keep the fortune without the fame_

_That’s how he makes it when he’s on his own_

\--Ratt, “Way Cool, Jr.”

_“There is one story about Cain that I might’ve...forgotten to tell you._

_“Apparently, he too was willing to accept death rather than becoming the killer the Mark wanted him to be. So he took his own life with the blade. He died. Except, as rumor has it, the Mark never quite let go._

_“You can understand why I never spoke of this. Why set hearts aflutter at mere speculation? It wasn’t until you summoned me -- no, it wasn’t truly until you left that cheeseburger uneaten that I began to let myself believe._

_“Maybe miracles do come true._

_“Listen to me, Dean Winchester. What you’re feeling right now, it’s not death. It’s life. A new kind of life._

_“Open your eyes Dean. See what I see. Feel what I feel._

_“Let’s go take a howl at that moon.”_

**\+ + + + +**

Most stories like to start on a dark, stormy night. This is not one of those stories.

It was broad daylight, the middle of May. Birds were singing, the skies were blue and streaked intermittently with the passage of angels, rising back to their home in the heavens. Not too far in the distance, there was a cabin, like nearly every other cabin in the history of cabins: slightly downtrodden but not falling apart, comprised not of logs but planks of rough-hewn wood. Two spectres stood guard at the door but otherwise, the whole scene was pretty unremarkable. 

At that point in time, as they are wont to do, a car pulled up; it was, by far, the most aesthetically-pleasing thing in the clearing - a bright, cherry red with black racing stripes and clean, easy lines. It was a classic, and obviously well-loved and cared-for. 

A woman - _possibly_ a woman, but they _looked_ like a woman, so let’s go with that - stepped out of the car. She was unremarkable in appearance, about as _average_ as one can get: plain features, average build, not too fat and not too skinny, and possessing the boring, white skin tone of your standard American citizen - not too pale, not too brown. The only things that stood out about her were her eyes (an even, pleasing, _intense_ blue) and her hair: cropped close in the back and long in the front, and dyed a neon purple color.

She reached over to the passenger seat and palmed a crumpled, greasy paper bag before closing and locking the car. She patted it affectionately on the hood before heading into the cabin. The spectres at the door ignored her, and she them.

Inside, a tall, ominous figure waited at a table which sat, lonely but for the two chairs on either side of it, in the direct center of the one-roomed cabin. The woman smiled at him, a rare thing indeed; how many people _smile_ at Death himself?

“You’re late,” he said. Which, as leading lines go, is a pretty good one.

She held up the bag, waggling it slightly. “I was getting something. Deep-fried Coke from Texas.” With that, she sat at the table, pushing the bag toward her companion. “Can you believe they make this shit? I can’t _even_ with the twenty-first century, old man; it’s ridiculous.”

Death rolled his eyes. “I suppose I ought to thank you; not all of us can travel in time as well as space _quite_ so easily. Of course, most of us have _jobs_ to do.”

“Did you just make a Doctor Who joke? I’m impressed.” The woman leaned back, all smiles, and the two of them exchanged what appeared to be small talk while Death savored her offering. Once it was gone, it was down to business.

“Have you considered my proposal?” she asked, leaning forward and placing an arm on the rough wood of the table. “All in the interest of _balance_ , after all.”

“Of course I considered it,” he said, dismissing her words with a small wave of his hand. “Your father asked it, but even if he _hadn’t_ , I would have. Things have been weighed clearly towards one side or another for the last century; I _had_ to consider it.”

She smiled, sly and clever. “Are you sure it’s not just because you have a soft spot for me?”

He snorted and didn’t confirm or deny her words, instead plowing forward. “It’s my nature to maintain the equilibrium. I don’t enter into deals lightly.”

“I know,” and her face was serious this time. “You know I don’t _ask_ them of you lightly, either.”

He smiled then; it looked out of place, a spark of life among the death he sowed, but it was genuine. “I’ll agree to your terms on the condition that for everyone I bring back for you, I bring someone... not on your side.”

She smiled, almost smirked. “I wouldn’t have expected any less of you. Just so long as it’s not any of the heavy-hitters; we don’t need another situation with the seals.”

“No, nothing like that. Just a little someone here or there. In the interest of balance.” For a brief second his attention was pulled outside; when his focus came back into the room, the woman was regarding him.

“Any word from upstairs?” she asked, delicately. “I heard the announcement, same as everyone.”

He shook his head. “He left, as promised. The reopening of the Gates -- that’s the work of your favorite.” He grimaced. “I know some of the angels are choosing to remain on Earth, and Metatron is still alive, amongst others who aren’t supposed to be. You have quite the job ahead of you.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry, old man. I’m on the case.”

“That’s not entirely reassuring,” he sighed, glancing forlornly at the empty paper bag.

**\+ + + + +**

Dean’s bed was empty.

Whatever took him couldn’t have been gone for very long -- the fucking memory foam (“It _remembers_ me,” he could hear Dean saying, eagerly) still had a Dean-shaped indent in it.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Sam shouted, punching at Dean’s bedroom door in his frustration and anger. It did nothing to alleviate either -- the door was solid oak. It cracked the skin of his knuckles open wide, dripping his own life’s blood to the floor. First Crowley doesn’t show, and then Dean’s body goes missing -- under his own power or by someone else’s, Sam didn’t know. 

He turned from the room, a whiff of sulfur completely escaping his notice as he passed by. “Dean?” he shouted, running through the corridors. “ _Dean?_ ”

**\+ + + + +**

Outside the bunker was cool for late spring. Not that Dean was concerned with things like that now.

The moon was full.

“I hope you don’t expect me to _actually_ howl,” Dean said, looking up at it. His eyes were black in the moonlight, but the King of Hell wondered if they’d _stay_ that way. His own had been black, once.

Crowley chuckled. “Metaphorically, perhaps.” He’d have glanced up at the moon as well, but he had more pressing matters on his mind, and his gaze was caught by his watch.

“We’re late,” he said. Dean didn’t question it, although he did raise an eyebrow, and with a moment’s thought, the two of them were gone.

**\+ + + + +**

He knew Dean was dead -- had _seen_ him, pierced by Metatron’s sword -- but there was a small piece of him that had seen Dean dead _before_ and refused to believe the truth of it.

Plus, his body was missing. Which was _never_ good. Sam had spent the better part of a year involved with a demon who had possessed the body of a woman recently deceased. He knew exactly what someone -- some _thing_ \-- could do with the newly-empty body of Dean Winchester.

Memories of Ruby twisted with Sam’s desperation to recover his brother, and a snippet flashed across his mind’s eye -- the demon witch, finding Dean with a bit of magic (and a candle and map). Flailing with the papers on the worktable in the main room, Sam secured a pen and began transcribing her location spell from memory. “De figute....mehi....pareus....inyi....” he muttered, pen flying. He was no witch, but he hoped that last remnant of demonic blood would amount to the same thing, because come hell or high water, _he was finding Dean_.

The black candles he had plenty of, and he had the incantation (Latin, of course, because when are spells ever anything _but_ Latin? Linguistically narrow, in Sam’s opinion), but he was short a map. He was elbow-deep in a box of assorted crap, and had just snagged an old AAA TripTick map of the continental US when his phone went off. Hopeful, he yanked it out of his pocket, but it wasn’t Dean (he’d _tried_ Dean’s phone, and then his second and third phones, _and_ the emergency burner phone, but they’d all gone off within the bunker, and decidedly _not_ attached to Dean’s body). 

It was Jody.

“Sam?” she said, and she sounded panicked. “We’re having a problem here.”

In the background he could hear Alex, who apparently had decided to stick around with Jody after all. She was talking about force fields which -- _what_?

“I’m kind of in the middle of something, Jody,” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Look, I’m pretty sure it’s demonic,” she said, her voice quiet. “Whatever it is, it’s at Bobby’s old house, and -- C-Crowley’s there.”

Sam told himself that he under no circumstances regretted telling Jody who her blind date had really been. Really, it was for her protection. 

Really. There was no guilt there.

 _Really_.

He glanced at the clock, and then the makings of Ruby’s spell, and he swore softly under his breath. Whatever was going on at Bobby’s house, it involved Crowley, and Sam had a bone to pick with him. The trip from Lebanon to Sioux Falls generally took about six hours, but it was coming up on 1 a.m.

No traffic, few cops.

“I’ll be there in three hours, four at most,” he told her, and hung up. His bag was still packed, and it took him seconds to refresh his ammunition and mentally calculate how much was left in the car. At the last second, he snagged a sheet of paper, written in Kevin Tran’s handwriting.

A quick perusal of the Men of Letters’ stockroom and he had all of the makings for a demon bomb or two in his duffel, nestled in between pairs of rolled-up socks and salt rounds. 

There was a Starbucks in Hastings; he’d get the largest espresso they’d sell him on the way to Sioux Falls. Maybe an energy drink or two.

It had been a long day.

It didn’t occur to Sam to be surprised that the Impala was where he’d parked her. After all, Dean was dead. Where else would she be?

**\+ + + + +**

Sam pulled up to the burned-out husk of Singer Salvage just as the first hints of pink were touching the horizon. The shell of Bobby’s house had long since fallen to pieces - the entire second floor was gone and only about half the walls of the first floor were still standing. In places you could even see charred sections of the wallpaper Bobby’s wife had chosen, all those years ago, but for the most part the place was derelict.

The _cars_ were still there, rusted-out and overgrown with weeds; the fence was still in place warning visitors to keep out; hell, even the garage where Bobby had performed the little bit of contract work he’d done to pay the bills and keep ahead on taxes was there, buttoned up as tight as it had been the night they’d abandoned the place. Sam had the key to it in his pocket. It looked like _heaven_ to squatters, and a curse to whoever had inherited the place. 

He wondered if the property was still sitting in probate hell or if the state owned it now.

He navigated over to where Jody’s police car was parked. She was sitting inside it, Alex in the passenger seat. They both looked shaken. Sam got out and approached the cruiser.

“Crowley disappeared about an hour ago and left _that_ ,” Jody said. Her eyes hadn’t moved from Bobby’s house as Sam approached, but now she glanced in his direction and frowned. “Where’s Dean?”

Sam didn’t know what the expression on his face looked like, but Jody must have realized that she should back off from that line of questioning because instead she gestured back toward Bobby’s house. Which Sam could just barely discern was covered by some sort of dome. It was barely visible to him, shimmering in the rapidly-brightening morning air.

“Do you see it?” Jody asked, curiosity coloring her voice. 

“Just barely?” he replied, squinting.

“Sam,” Jody said, and her voice was soft now. “Whatever that thing is --”

“It’s a force field,” Alex interrupted. “Neither of us can get in.”

“There’s no such thing as force fields,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

“It’s _solid black_. We can’t see what’s going on in there,” Jody continued, as if Alex and Sam hadn’t spoken.

“Huh,” Sam said, frowning. “I can barely make it out -- I just see Bobby’s house. And --” his breath hitched. “It looks like someone’s standing inside of it.”

The two women were quiet for several minutes, digesting that. As far as he knew, Jody was unaware of Sam’s demon blood, didn’t know about Azazel and his children, and Sam offered no explanation.

“I guess I’d better go check it out,” he said, reluctantly. Now that Crowley was nowhere to be found -- unless he was standing in Bobby’s former living room, which didn’t seem likely as the figure was taller than the King of Hell -- Sam was a _lot_ less enthusiastic about investigating.

“Be careful,” Jody cautioned. She started her car. “I’m gonna go to the station, in case I need to run interference. Call me if you need anything.”

Sam watched her cruiser disappear before heading back to the Impala. He popped open the trunk and rummaged around, coming up with a handful of bullets for his Taurus, each with a Demon’s Trap engraved on them, and an angel blade. Just before he slammed the trunk closed, he grabbed one of the demon bombs. Just in case.

He loaded his gun, tucked it into the back of his jeans, and headed for Bobby’s place. 

The barrier was just barely there, shimmering faintly, and he held his breath as he extended a leg forward. There was no resistance -- he crossed easily, although there was a light tingling on his skin as he did so. He wondered if his ease of passage was because of his demonic blood or if there was some other reason.

He picked his way toward the figure, but it didn’t take long for him to realize who it was.

Six feet of body, honed after a lifetime of hunting, turned, and lips curled upward into a grin. 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said. His eyes were black.

**\+ + + + +**

“ _Exorcizamus te_ ,” Sam began, the words falling out of his mouth before even had a chance to think about it. The demon possessing Dean’s body laughed and waved its hand, and Sam found himself hurtling toward the remains of a wall.

He crashed through it and immediately rolled, scrambling to his feet. To his surprise the angel blade was still in his hand, and he went into a fighting stance as he crawled back into what remained of Bobby’s living room.

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ ,” he managed, before the demon laughed, cruelly, interrupting him again.

Dean tugged down the collar of his T-shirt. The anti-possession charm shone back, whole.

“Works _both ways_ ,” he said, grinning. Then he went back to whatever he’d been doing before, which involved a lot of standing in Bobby’s living room with his eyes closed and his arms thrown out. Sam stared.

“Ah,” Dean said, eyes opening again. They were still black, and the sight still sent a shiver of rage and fear down Sam’s spine. “Bobby was a sneaky fucker. Hiding it in the panic room would’ve hidden it from just about everything in existence.” He started for the partially-covered basement stairwell, but Sam threw himself at him, angel blade out.

“What, you’re gonna stab me?” Dean snorted and another blast of demonic energy issued from him, sending Sam plowing through the last remaining wall in the place. “My own flesh and blood. I’m _hurt_ , Sammy.”

Sam was more woozy this time, and it took several minutes for him to clear his head enough to stand up. When he did, whatever was possessing Dean was standing in the living room, a triumphant expression on his face. He was holding a ring -- a plain gold band. 

“D’you know, the original saying wasn’t, ‘Blood is thicker than water,’” Dean said, casually, as he pocketed the ring. “It was ‘The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.’ Means the family you make is more important than the family you’re given. That’ll come in handy, let me tell you. Bobby being like a dad to us and all.” Dean grinned at Sam who, expression blank, reached into his pocket. “What, now you’re gonna _shoot_ me? Come on, Sam.”

But Sam pulled out a container, glowing faintly blue -- one that Dean would recognize and, presumably, the demon inhabiting him as well. 

“A demon bomb,” and now Dean looked a little bit nervous. “You’d kill your own brother? Really?” 

“Dean would rather be dead than possessed,” Sam said.

Dean laughed. “You think I’m _possessed_?” He laughed again, throwing his head back, and that’s when Sam took his chance and launched the bomb.

The look of surprise on the demon’s face was worth it.

When the smoke cleared, Dean’s body was still there which -- that wasn’t normal. It usually wiped demons, vessels included, out of _existence_.

Still, Sam wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He went to the Impala, grabbed the cuffs they’d used on Crowley for all of those months, and snapped them around the wrist of the demon.

He’d never appreciated how heavy muscle mass was until he had to carry an unconscious demon in his brother’s body -- it took more than a few moments to maneuver the body into a fireman’s carry, and a few more to stumble back to the Impala and put Dean in the trunk -- under the demon’s trap.

Sam forced whatever it was he was feeling down, swallowing and letting his face go blank. He had a job to do.

 _Cry about it after the job’s done, Sammy,_ he heard Dean’s voice telling him. 

He started the Impala and drove away, unaware that the King of Hell was watching his every move.

**\+ + + + +**

If Sam was annoyed at having to drive the speed limit in the light of day, he didn’t show it, and six hours wasn’t enough time to rouse the demon. He was pretty sure it was still alive -- Dean’s body was breathing and had a pulse, which honestly was more than he could say for Dean himself. 

He’d elected to come through the garage, because it was closest to the dungeon, and by the time he got the demon chained up and in about three different layers of Devil’s Traps, he was almost unconscious himself. In the last 24 hours, he’d launched an attack on Metatron, watched his brother die, driven to Sioux Falls and found his brother, reanimated by an unholy being, then driven _back_ from Sioux Falls, unholy being in hand.

Sam was understandably exhausted, and he stumbled to his bedroom and caught six good hours of shut-eye, still covered in his brother’s blood.

**\+ + + + +**

When Sam regained consciousness, the demon was awake.

It grinned at him as he peered around the door. _Leered_ , almost. Stifling a shudder, Sam went back to his room, got a change of clothes, and took a nice, long, hot shower. Then he forced himself to eat a good meal with what was left in the kitchen from their last Costco run.

If he was going to interrogate a demon, he was going to be in good shape for it. 

When he walked back into the dungeon, Sam was carrying a bag. It had been Dean’s, and it contained most of the implements needed to torture a demon. 

“Oooh,” the demon said. “You’re serious about this. That’s...good,” and it looked back up at him, eyes back to normal. “Gotta keep your skills sharp, Sammy. Shit’s about to get _real_.”

The demon’s mouth was open again, to say something, and Sam threw an entire flask of holy water on him. It smoked and sizzled, and the demon’s eyes flashed black and ...putrid yellow? ....but it didn’t flinch.

Instead, it threw its head back and laughed.

“Oh, come _on_. You’re gonna have to try harder to beat a Knight of Hell, Sam.” The taunting tone was so _Dean_ that for a half-second, Sam almost believed he was looking at his brother.

“Angel blades and holy water? Salt, too, I’m betting. It’ll sting like a bitch, but that shit ain’t gonna work this time.” The demon sneered. “Man, and I thought _I_ was the torturer in the family. Got a hidden kink there, Sammy?” The demon winked broadly. “The sex with Ruby must have been --”

Sam interrupted him with a blow to the face, his temper getting the best of him. “ _Shut up,_ ” he said.

The demon laughed again. “Bet you’ve been waiting _years_ to do that, huh? Get it all out, Sammy. I’m good for it these days.” And it laughed again.

“You’re not a Knight,” Sam ground out between clenched teeth. He carefully stepped back again, past the Devils Traps. “Abaddon’s dead, and Cain’s the only last living Knight. And _you_ don’t seem like his type.”

“You’d be right about that,” said a voice, behind Sam, and he whirled around. A middle-aged man stood there, leaning casually against the door jamb. White streaked his peppered beard and brown hair, and it flickered in the light as he straightened. “You and I never met, Sam Winchester.” He smiled, but there was nothing behind the smile. “That was probably for the best.”

“Who the hell --” Sam began.

“I’m not possessing your brother, Sam.” The man smiled again; still empty, not even a flicker of sadness behind his eyes. Those same eyes hardened as he peered behind Sam. “He’s possessing himself. That’s the curse of the Mark; you get darker and darker until you die, and you come back a demon. A Knight.” 

“You’re -- you’re Cain,” Sam managed, after several seconds.

Cain rolled his eyes heavenward for a second. “They said that you were the _smart_ brother.” He sighed; it was the kind of sigh Sam was intimately familiar with. He’d heard both himself and his brother let duplicates out over the years. It was the kind of sigh someone made when they were tired and ready for it all to be _over_.

“Why are you here?” Sam said. And then: “ _How did you get in here?_ ”

Cain shrugged. “Door was open when I arrived. Nice digs. I hope you don’t mind -- I made myself a sandwich.” He walked toward Sam, eyes flashing black and then yellow, red and then white. “My business here isn’t with you. It’s with your brother. He and I made a deal, and he’s yet to follow through with it.” He glanced back toward Dean. “This is me. Calling.”

Dean sneered at him but said nothing.

Cain looked at Sam and suddenly he looked sad. “I am sorry about this, but I got business with Dean, like I said.” There was a cracking noise and all of the protections around Dean -- gone. The floor was split, bisected neatly in half right through the Devil’s Traps.

“No,” Sam said, pushing forward. “No, you can’t. I just _found him,_ I can _cure him_ \--”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Cain said, again, and he looked genuinely regretful as he threw up his hand. Sam flew to the opposite side of the room, pinned to it. He smiled again, but it wasn’t the empty smile from before -- it was a sad one. “But you can’t cure a Knight of Hell. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Cain crossed the broken traps like they were nothing, reaching down with a firm hand and grasping Dean by the front of his shirt.

And then they were gone, and Sam was sliding to the floor.

**\+ + + + +**

A little-known fact about demons is that, like angels, they have pretty good spatial awareness. They’re not quite on-par with the Heavenly Host, but they generally always know their physical location. A supernatural scholar in the 1800’s, _not_ affiliated with the Men of Letters, postulated that this is because the soul, freed from the body even if corrupted, is not a physical thing, but a thing of quantum mechanics, and thus can be everywhere and nowhere at once. The angels scoffed at the idea; most of the demons thought it was hilarious. No one took it very seriously, although it was closer to right than one might think. A once-prophet, in early 2010, stumbled across the research, and smiled to himself because humans were so ingenious, coming so close and so far at the _same time_. And then he disappeared to parts unknown.

So Dean was instantly aware when they landed in Cheyenne, Wyoming, two states over from Kansas, after a psychic ride so bumpy he was pretty sure it was deliberate.

“Dick,” he muttered, but not loudly -- Dean might be a demon now, but Cain was still _scary as fuck_.

“We had a deal,” Cain said in preamble. “You’re gonna pony up tonight.”

“Tonight? Dude, it’s like, _noon_. And who the fuck says ‘pony up’ anymore?”

Cain rolled his eyes. He walked over to the fridge and pulled out two beers, passing one to Dean. “You ever wonder, Dean? Angels fall -- all the time, actually, it’s a lot more frequent than the Host would like anyone to believe -- so do you think it’s possible for demons to climb?”

“Why would they _want_ to?” Dean asked, incredulous, and Cain sighed again and sat down on what had to be the _ugliest_ couch Dean had ever seen. Which, since he’d spent several nights on Bobby’s old couch in his youth, was saying something.

Cain took another sip of his beer and set it on the coffee table, and then reached behind him and produced the First Blade, which he set next to the beer.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Dean asked, suddenly on the defense.

“Your brother left it in the main room of that bunker he’s living out of,” Cain said, shrugging. “It’s technically mine, so I don’t feel too bad about taking it back. After all, you’ll be needing it.”

Dean sat across from Cain and popped the top of his beer, taking a sip and setting it down as well, before picking up the blade absently. It felt good in his hands; powerful. “Look, dude, I don’t understand why you want to do this. Two Knights, alive and in the same space at the same time since --”

“Since they killed my wife,” Cain said, warningly, and Dean skirted away from timelines.

“I’m just saying, that’s a lotta power,” Dean said, leaning back. “Crowley’s _nothing_. We could take Hell in a heartbeat.”

“And do... _what_ with it, exactly?” Cain asked. “I’m not interested in Hell.” He pointed at the First Blade. “You’ve got ‘til I’m done with my beer and then you’ll do what you promised to do.”

“You’re not joking,” Dean said. “You’re serious. Do demons even _have_ an afterlife? I never ran into any in Purgatory.”

“That’s the myth,” Cain said, sipping his beer. “There’s a realm beyond Purgatory. Well, within and beyond. The physics of it don’t make any sense.” 

He took a large gulp; the beer was now half-finished. He set it down and made some aborted swooping gestures. “Angelic grace and human souls aren’t all that different in composition. It’s like the difference between graphite and diamonds. Same stuff, just...” and Cain held his hands together with only a little space in between them, cupping air the air like he himself was pressing in all directions on a diamond in the rough. “Different construction. And all demons are carbon or black diamond: human souls, corrupted, fighting for Lucifer. Purgatory’s a realm of redemption.” He picked his beer up again and pointed at Dean with the mouth of it. “I hear you yourself called it ‘pure.’ That ain’t far from the truth. It’s _purifying_. Monsters who come through the end of it are _purified_. They get to go to heaven. That separate space of Purgatory, _that’s_ where demons and angels go when they die; to become _pure_.”

“Man, why are you telling me this?” Dean whined. He set his beer down; it was getting warm and he’d lost the taste for it.

“Because that’s the myth. If angels can fall, demons can climb. It makes sense, theoretically. And that’s what I’m hoping.” He twirled his beer bottle, now down to the dregs, between his fingers and watched the foam circle the glass. “If I can climb, if I can become _pure_ enough, I’ll get to see Colette again. In Heaven -”

“Seriously?” Dean quirked an eyebrow. “You’re going all kamikaze because of a _chick_?”

“I’ll get to see my _brother_ again!” Cain shouted, throwing his mostly-empty beer bottle and standing. “Do you know how long I’ve gone without setting eyes on Abel? I was around at the _beginning of humanity_ , you little shit.” Dean stood up and began backing away when Cain started advancing on him. “I’ll go to Purgatory, or wherever the hell it is that demons go. I’ll purify myself. And then I’ll get to see them again.” He backed Dean against the wall. “And family or no, you’re not going to stop me.”

“Family?” Dean said, frowning. 

“My brother and I, we each had a wife before Lucifer came to us,” Cain said, with almost unlimited patience. Dean was pretty sure it was an act. “Abel’s wife was with child when I killed my brother. You two come from his line. The Winchesters, descended from the line of Cain and Abel. Direct ancestors, male through male, for hundreds of thousands of years.”

“So, what, you’re my uncle? Uncle Cain? That’s rich,” Dean sneered. Cain was mere feet from him, and Dean had the First Blade out as a precaution.

“It sort of runs in the family line,” Cain said, nonsensically. “Family killing family.” And then he stepped forward, grabbed hold of Dean’s hand, and stabbed the First Blade into his heart.

After the light show they’d gotten when Abaddon died, Dean was almost disappointed when Cain simply flickered out and went limp.

“Whatever,” Dean said, wrinkling his nose. He shook the corpse off of the blade -- _his_ blade, now -- and walked back to the coffee table. Downing the beer in one long gulp, he tossed the bottle behind his back, uncaring as to where it fell.

He was gone before it hit the floor.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam had all of ten seconds to process that his brother was gone, that Cain had _taken_ him, when he heard a noise. Instantly alert, he shot upward, reaching for his gun and carefully edging toward the door.

The hallway was long and silent, and he heard another noise, coming from the main room. It sounded like something toppling over.

He bolted toward the noise, forgetting all stealth training. There was knowledge, there were _relics_ in that library, that he couldn’t afford anyone getting their hands on. The Spear of Destiny (still dark with Jesus’ blood, which was creepy as hell), the Ark of the Covenant (sadly empty but imbued with its own power), Merlin’s staff, long and twisted and whiter than anything Sam had ever seen -- things that had no specific use to the Winchesters but that any enemy could destroy the world with.

He stopped at the door of the main room and took in the scene. What had fallen was one of the sword displays, and what had knocked it over was --

“Cas?” he said, tentatively, walking toward the angel.

Cas was on the floor, pulsing white-hot with grace -- _stolen_ grace, burning him up from the inside out.

“It’s happening,” Cas gasped out.


	3. Episode Two - Shooting Star

** Episode Two - Shooting Star **

_Don’t you know that you are a shooting star?_

_Don’t you know?_

_Don’t you know that you are a shooting star?_

_And all the world will love you just as long_

_As long as you are_

_A shooting star_

\--Bad Company, “Shooting Star”

_“Cas?” Sam said, tentatively, walking toward the angel._

_Cas was on the floor, pulsing white-hot with grace -- burning grace, burning him up from the inside out._

_“It’s happening,” Cas gasped out._

**\+ + + + +**

Sam was at the angel’s side before he could think otherwise; he was trying futilely to keep the grace from exploding outward although -- it looked more like it was just eating Cas up, eating his _vessel_ up. “What can I do?”

“There’s nothing,” Cas said. He was so obviously in pain, and Sam would walk over coals if it meant he never had to hear his friend sound so tortured again. “I’m dying. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

“There’s got to be _something_ ,” Sam shouted. Without thinking, he lashed out, standing and punching the wall. “We can’t lose you, Cas. We _need_ you.”

“I know,” Cas said, wincing. “That’s why I -- Hannah will have it. It took several volumes but I transcribed it, all of my knowledge --”

“Cas, _dammit_ ,” Sam said, kneeling down to the angel’s level again. “That’s not why I need you. You’re _family_.” He winced. “You’re all I have left now. I’ve lost -- almost _everyone_. There’s _got_ to be a way.”

Cas’ brow furrowed and he thought about it for several seconds, wincing the entire time. “There might be a way. I’d have to Fall, the traditional way, and rip out the grace. I’m not sure I won’t just be reborn human, but I’m already on Earth so I don’t know -- I might just remain in my vessel.”

“Let’s do it, then,” Sam said. “I’d rather you get reborn and live human than just -- die _forever_.”

Cas chuckled, even though obviously it pained him to do so. Light flickered through his eyes, on-and-off, a sick brown slicking the white-blue color. “It will be...percussive. Destructive. I should go somewhere that can withstand an explosion.”

Sam thought quickly, about how the gun range was structurally sound, closest to the surface, and surrounded with impact-resistant soundproofing, because the Men of Letters had sometimes done explosive experiments in there.

“How big of an explosion?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’ll require the Bikini Atoll, but it will be _loud_. You shouldn’t be nearby when it happens,” Cas said. He gasped. “I need to do it as soon as possible.”

“Right,” Sam said, hefting Castiel up in a fireman’s carry. “Let’s do this.”

**\+ + + + +**

Dean was still getting the hang of transit the demonic way, but it didn’t take him long to appear back at Crowley’s side. The King of Hell was standing in front of a derelict building, eyeing it contemptuously.

“Violates at least seven building codes, but it’ll do,” he said, sneering, before turning to Dean. “Sammy didn’t take the bait, then?” he asked, brightly.

Dean shrugged, fingering the ring in his pocket thoughtfully, and turned back toward the building. It was old school, brick-and-mortar, and looked to be falling to pieces. The building had no main door, and in fact looked to be an old warehouse; the only entrances were the back loading dock, where trucks could pull up to be unloaded, and what the two of them were standing in front of. The door was heavy and appeared to be some sort of employee entrance. There were no windows.

“What, are you building a fort or something?” Dean asked, confused.

Crowley grinned. “Wait and see, Squirrel.”

**\+ + + + +**

Castiel shot upright and immediately felt sick. Without really thinking, he rushed to the nearest bathroom and began vomiting copiously. Every cup of coffee he’d ever drank at a Biggersons, every burger he’d ever eaten, it was _all_ coming up. 

When he was done, it felt like hours had passed, and he once again experienced the disorienting feeling of not knowing exactly what time it was, or exactly _where_ he was.

He inhaled, trying to ignore the taste and smell of his sick, and took stock. 

He was human, obviously; angels occasionally get motion sickness when stuck inside human vehicles (he knew a few who were susceptible; Balthazar had been one of them, and it was one reason the angel had preferred flying), but they never _vomit_.

He appeared to be in the same vessel he’d been in before so -- not a baby. That was good, at least. 

He stood, wobbly, and reached for the sink, flushing the toilet on the way. He carefully rinsed his mouth, making extensive use of the mouthwash sitting on the porcelain edge of the sink, until he felt like he wasn’t _completely_ disgusting.

The mirror above the sink showed that, yes, Jimmy Novak’s face still stared back at him. He sighed, sadly, and traced a finger down the mirror, echoing the edge of his jawline, before leaning down to wash his face. He searched until he found a toothbrush that was still wrapped, in the cupboard behind the mirror, and some toothpaste, and he brushed his teeth, finally ridding himself of the film that unconsciousness and vomit had left on the enamel. 

Trying to trace his way back to where he’d been in when he awoke, he found himself in Dean’s room. He _knew_ , despite never having been in it, because Dean’s prized knife from Purgatory hung on the wall, and there were Led Zeppelin albums all over the desk. 

Looking down, he found himself in well-worn pajama pants and an old, plain black T-shirt that he was almost positive were Dean’s as well. A flicker of hope sprung in his chest, and he turned right back around and headed into the library.

Sam was there; he didn’t look like he’d gotten any sleep since Castiel had last seen him. Which -- when had that been?

“Sam,” he began.

Sam turned. “Oh, hey, Cas,” he said, a genuine, if small, smile lighting his face. “You’re up. That’s good. How are you feeling?”

Cas inhaled. “Better,” he said. Then: “Thank you.”

There was an awkward pause; Castiel was fond of Sam and would (and had done so in the past) protect him with his life, but he’d always been closer to Dean. He often found himself at a loss as to how to talk to his human friend.

“So you’re human again,” Sam said.

“Yes,” Cas agreed.

Sam grinned and said, “Gimme a second.”

He disappeared and Cas sat there, stock still, trying to parse the strangeness of human languages and idioms. By the time he’d concluded that handing a second over to someone was impossible and that humans were ridiculous, Sam was back, beaming. He held out a plate and a cup -- a coffee and PB&J. 

Castiel smiled back. From the smell of it, Sam remembered how Cas preferred his coffee (two creams, no sugar) and had also remembered that he liked grape jelly instead of strawberry or raspberry.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said, softly, taking the plate and cup. The two of them sat at the table -- Sam back to his researching, and Cas to his breakfast, unusual as it was. PB&J tasted as good as he remembered it, and he savored every bite and considered asking for another before he remembered, and suddenly, he wasn’t very hungry again.

“So it’s true, then,” he said, quietly. Sam looked up at him. “That Dean is dead. Metatron told me he killed him, but I -- I’d hoped he was lying.”

Sam swallowed. “It’s -- actually a lot worse than that, Cas.” His voice was breaking. “He had the Mark of Cain. You _know_ what happened to Cain when he tried to die as a human.”

Cas sucked in his breath. “He became a demon. The first Knight of Hell.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Yeah. I saw it. Dean’s -- he’s alive. But --”

“But he’s a demon.” Castiel felt sick again, and struggled against the nausea. He knew that demons weren’t _all_ bad -- after all, there had been Meg, and even though Ruby was a double agent he was _certain_ that she’d legitimately come to care for Sam. Crowley was... tolerable, in small doses, and there had been other demons Castiel had known in his long life that hadn’t been so terrible, in retrospect.

But Dean, whose soul had shown brighter than an angel’s grace in the black depths of Hell, turned demonic -- the idea _disgusted_ him.

Clearly, he had some prejudices to work through.

There was movement, and a guzzling noise, and suddenly, a glass landed in front of him, sloshing slightly. It was filled with amber liquid, just a finger’s worth.

“You’re a Winchester now, this is how we deal with our problems,” Sam said, pointing to the whiskey. He snorted. “God, I sound like him. It’s _weird_.”

“What are you researching?” Castiel asked, after a fortifying (and paradoxically, stomach-turning) sip of the whiskey. The whiskey wasn’t what made him feel warm; it was Sam referring to him as a Winchester. But Castiel would never tell Sam how much it meant to him, to have a family that _wanted_ him, that hadn’t been foisted on him upon his creation.

Even if that family was currently a single person, sitting in a bunker, staring down at a book.

“How to cure a Knight of Hell,” Sam said, frowning. “I mean, you can cure a _demon_ but --”

“You can’t cure a Knight,” Castiel replied, on automatic. “They have to find their own redemption, they have to _want_ it.”

“ _Cain_ wanted redemption,” Sam said. “He _fell in love_. He _wanted to be human again_. Dean told me the whole story. And redemption...never came.”

“After they redeem themselves,” Cas continued, quietly, “They have to die. As a demon. And they have to find someone capable of killing them, and that’s...not easy. And even _then_ , they don’t come back. They just...go on.”

“On to where?” 

“There are things I’m not _meant_ to know,” Cas said, curling in on himself slightly. “Because of the souls from Purgatory, I do, but I’m not _meant_ to.”

“I didn’t mean to --” Sam said, backing off.

“Sam,” Cas said, interrupting him. “There are no demons wandering Purgatory. They go to the neither, the void, a place...beyond Purgatory. To become pure. To await entrance to Heaven.”

Sam sat back. “Does it work?” he asked. “Have any demons ever entered Heaven?”

“I don’t know, Sam.”

They had exactly two seconds to ponder that before alarms began screaming.

**\+ + + + +**

She knew where he died, so it _had_ to be around here somewhere.

It was dark, and the car was far enough away that it looked black under cover of night, even though she _knew_ it was cherry red and bright. After all, she’d chosen the color specifically.

The headlights were on; the car was idling from the same spot that she’d very nearly thrown it into the ditch, and in her haste to exit she’d left the door open.

That was fine, because she _had_ to be closing in on it.

Off in the distance she could see lights over a parking lot, illuminating a tiny convenience store and an abandoned hotel. It was definitely the right spot, she just had to _pay attention_.

She hadn’t even thought to shrug off the irritating messenger bag, with its grisly contents, and it thumped against her thigh. She brushed off the annoyance; it wasn’t important. This _was_. 

She hoped no one else had found it.

Several minutes of frustrated searching later yielded nothing, and she was about to give it up as a bad bit of intel, cursing the fire goddess under her breath, when she caught sight of it at the very edge of her senses. Her face, previously a blank mask of concentration, lit up in delight, and she plowed forward. She was now almost twenty yards away from her still-idling car, but no one would steal it. No one _could_.

Finally, in a puddle of weeds and water and dirt, she found it, glowing softly in the night. She brushed a length of purple hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear and _seriously_ considering cutting her bangs, as she knelt down, a glass vial in hand and ready.

Only after she’d gathered it up, securely stoppering the vial, did she speak, voice soft. “ _There_ you are.” The spark glowed brighter in her presence, and she smiled at the recognition.

Carefully, she tucked the last flicker of an angel’s grace into the bag, standing up to regard the field around her. As she turned back to the car, she began humming a jaunty tune under her breath. 

Things were officially back on track.

**\+ + + + +**

The noise got louder as Sam and Castiel both dashed to the main console for the instruments in the bunker. There were flashing lights for things Sam had never _heard_ of, but the big red bulb that dominated the console was labeled “PROXIMITY ALERT” in large, threatening letters. 

There was a monitor, and pushing the button to silence the alarms (thank _God_ ) turned it on, showing the front door of the bunker. Sam, to the best of his knowledge, had never seen a camera there. That worried him for a _really_ brief second before he realized who it was at the door.

“Jody?” He said. “What the _hell_?”

Castiel peered at the image. “Are you sure that is Jody? Could she be possessed?”

Sam thought about it. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if Bobby ever convinced her to get an anti-possession tattoo.” Castiel cocked his head curiously and Sam realized that the angel -- former angel, now, he supposed -- and Jody had never met face-to-face before.

“We...should probably get you an anti-possession tattoo,” Sam said.

“Yes, probably,” Castiel agreed. “But first, we should go meet your friend.”

Sam inhaled and then exhaled, slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go get the salt.”

**\+ + + + +**

Jody was not expecting to be greeted with a splash of holy water, but she’d known the Winchesters long enough that she wasn’t exactly _surprised_.

“You’re lucky I don’t carry Coach,” she chastised him, but willingly held out her hands: one for the silver and iron test, and one for the borax test. There had been a few more added over the years but Sam seriously doubted that Jody had been turned into a vampire since he last saw her, and even more seriously doubted that she was being possessed by a spirit.

“Does the salary for the sheriff of Sioux Falls support a habit of overpriced handbags?” Castiel asked, curious, from the doorway. Sam had insisted that he stay on _that_ side of the wards.

“Not even _close_ ,” Jody said. She turned back to Sam. “Am I good?”

“Yeah, you’re good,” Sam said, gesturing her inside. “How’d you know where we were? Why didn’t you _call_?”

“ _Please_ ,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Dean told me about his ‘batcave’ like the minute he could. He said Lebanon, and one of the books Bobby had talked about geographical centers having power, so it wasn’t hard to find.” She eyed him. “And I did call. Like twenty times. You didn’t answer.”

The thought of Dean hurt, so instead Sam ushered Jody into the main living area, securely locking the door behind him. After Cas had left it open in his haze (admittedly, he’d been dying; Sam didn’t hold it against him), letting Cain in to snag Dean, Sam was a little paranoid about locking behind himself.

On the way in, he plugged his phone in to charge. He’d forgot, and it was dead.

“So who’s this?” Jody asked, turning and planting her hands on her hips. Sam thought it was a good question, and he approved of good questions. And after all, Cas was lacking his trademark overcoat -- which, along with most of his other clothes, had been destroyed when he ripped out the stolen grace -- and was wandering the bunker in Dean’s old castoffs.

“Jody, this is Castiel. Cas, Jody Mills, sheriff of Sioux Falls.”

Castiel held out his hand. “It is good to meet you in person,” he said, politely. “If course, I’ve watched over you before, but we’ve never met face-to-face.” The weird media-infusion Metatron had forced on him had one good side-effect: it meant that Castiel understood manners, even if he still didn’t quite get the _point_ of them. 

Jody shook his hand, frowning at his statement, and then her eyes widened. “You mean, the _angel_ Castiel?”

Cas’ expression turned chagrined as he dropped her hand. “Not any longer, I’m afraid.”

Jody blinked, accepted that at face value, and then turned to Sam. “I got last time that Dean was a no-no question, so if you want, I can start with why _I’m_ here?”

“It’s not a no-no anymore,” Sam said, sighing. He sank into a chair. “What do you know about the story of Cain and Abel?”

**\+ + + + +**

Dean played with the First Blade like it was a child’s toy, dangling it in his hands and letting it drag across the derelict table he was sitting at while Crowley spun out plans. Honestly, Dean wasn’t paying much attention -- he had his own plans formulating, at the back of his head, but he wasn’t worrying much about them either. Really, he was just _bored_.

Finally, he stood up. “Look,” he said. “You do what you gotta do. I’m gonna go find some action. Admin’s your schtick; call me if you need someone killed.” And with that, he disappeared.

Crowley stared at the spot where Dean had so recently been, and then shrugged. Dean was right, anyway -- _talking_ about his plans was a waste of time. Better to be _implementing_ them.

He pulled out his cell phone -- he detested using blood communication, it was a waste of perfectly good souls -- and hit speed dial number four. “The property’s been purchased,” he said, conversationally. “Let’s start renovation first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Shall I counterfeit building permits?” the voice at the other end said.

“No need,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve got the county clerk’s soul, and he’d do a lot to have an extension. I’ll have it ready to go by morning. Get the blueprints from Abraxas and get it done.”

“Yes sir,” said the voice, smoothly, and they ended the call.

**\+ + + + +**

“Dean’s a demon,” Jody said. She looked stricken.

“Yeah. Like, _actually_ a demon, not _possessed_ by one,” Sam confirmed. 

“He’s gonna be... _really_ hard to beat,” she managed.

“He’s a Knight of Hell,” Castiel said. “Traditionally, that’s their forte. Being hard to beat.”

“No,” Jody replied, slowly, looking up at the two of them. “Dean _knows_ you two. Knows most of your worst secrets, knows all of your strategies. This is worse than the Leviathan, because it’s _Dean_. He knows how to hurt you two at the worst level, just using _words_. He can _play_ you.”

There was a silence as both Sam and Castiel’s faces took on dawning looks of horror.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Cas admitted. 

“It isn’t going to be fun,” Jody said.

“It never is,” Sam replied, sighing. “Anyway, let’s switch topics, because this is more depressing than usual -- why are _you_ here?”

“I got contacted by a Linda Tran,” Jody said, raising an eyebrow. “Who is apparently _extremely_ resourceful. She Googled you and found these books --”

Sam groaned. “Those books are going to be the death of us, I swear to God.”

“Don’t swear to God,” Castiel said. “He’s probably not listening, anyway.”

That came out rather bitter, but Sam ignored it. If he’d lived Castiel’s life, he’d be bitter, too.

“We know Linda,” Sam began.

“Oh, I _know_ ,” Jody interrupted. She smiled. “Bobby told me about the Supernatural books. He thought it was _hilarious_. I’ve been following them since just after we ran into that goddess last year. They’re planning a musical, apparently.”

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Sam said. He closed, and then opened, his mouth, but he couldn’t come up with an answer to that. At _all_. At least he didn’t have to tell Jody about the demon blood -- she presumably knew already. Motherfucking _Chuck Shurley_.

“Off-Broadway, I hope,” Cas said, paling. Sam very viscerally remembered that for a year or two there, Castiel didn’t come off as the most... _sympathetic_ of characters.

“Oh, yeah, no, definitely,” Jody reassured him. She seemed to be enjoying herself entirely too much. “It’s got a really limited tour, going through like six cities, and then it’s done. Sometime in the next few weeks is opening night in like, Peoria or something ridiculous.”

Sam groaned and let his head fall into his arms, laying on the table. Jody chuckled to herself, and Castiel just got paler.

“Anyway,” Jody said, a minute or so later. “Linda got ahold of me because, and this is me quoting her, ‘my son is gone and I want some answers, goddamnit.’ Apparently he just up and vanished -- after having been a ghost for half a year.”

“That _does_ sound like Linda Tran,” Castiel said. 

“Why would Kevin disappear so suddenly, though?” Sam asked. This was slightly muffled, because his face was still smushed against his forearms. 

Cas shrugged. “The gates of Heaven are re-opened. Souls stuck on Earth or in the Veil destined for Heaven would have Ascended; we made sure of it.” His brow furrowed. “But no other Prophet has risen, and _that_ concerns me. There must always be a Prophet, even if they are dormant.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jody said, again, verbally dragging them back to the conversation. “Linda tracked some stuff down to Lawrence, Kansas, after her kid went MIA, and she says she’s found something important. She wants your input. Both of you,” she said, looking at the both of them. “She actually specifically did not ask for Dean, but ‘Sam and Castiel.’”

Sam frowned into his arm. “How could she --”

“Her son was a Prophet, even in death,” Castiel reminded Sam. “Likely one of the last things he saw before Ascending was Dean’s emergence as a demon; he’d have warned her.”

“Yeah, but the Gates were opened before that,” Sam protested.

Castiel shrugged; he apparently was unconcerned. “I didn’t say the Ascension would be immediate. I’m not sure how long it took; maybe Kevin was able to See one last vision before it.”

They were quiet for a moment before Sam lifted his head, finally, from his arms, and looked at Castiel. The man needed a shower, a shave, and a _real_ breakfast -- one that didn’t consist of a sandwich, coffee, and whiskey, but he looked okay, considering the ordeal he’d been through. Hell, he’d only slept overnight; Cas was tougher than he looked, even as a human.

“You up for a trip, Cas?” he asked.

Cas sighed. “I’d rather not, but I feel we owe it to the Prophet’s mother. She’s suffered a lot because of us.” He paused. “And perhaps we can put her mind at ease.”

Sam nodded, and then looked at Jody. “Coming with us?”

“And have an excuse to fangirl with another _Supernatural_ fan?” Jody joked, smiling to ease the sting. “You couldn’t _stop_ me.”

**\+ + + + +**

It was a room, nondescript and definitely not worthy of what was about to take place, but it was cheap and out of the way; no one would think to look for her in Illinois. She had, after all, other business along the 55 to deal with.

She’d had to hightail it out of Muncie right quick; a pack of angels had refused to Ascend right near there and not only was she carrying grace, but they were pretty much the only thing that could see right through her, know her for what she _was_. Best not to tempt fate.

She snorted at that thought and pulled the messenger bag off her shoulder. She set it near the center of the room before getting to work on the furniture. It took a while doing it the hard way, but she couldn’t risk any _thing_ noticing something out of the ordinary; what she was about to do would draw enough metaphysical noses in her direction as it was. 

After about an hour, she’d done everything she could. The room was scrubbed clean, magically speaking; the furniture was shoved along the walls, out of the way, and all of the windows were carefully lined with salt, borax, and a plethora of magical wards that would mean absolutely nothing to anyone not fluent in Old Enochian. 

Finally, she went back to the center of the room. From the bag, she withdrew a knife, golden and glittering in the low light of the cheap motel, and with no hesitation she sliced through the skin of her right pointer finger. 

“That’s it,” she murmured to the wound, pressing down on the skin around it to encourage bloodflow. Then she began to draw, smearing the cheap carpet with her own vital fluids, surrounding the bag.

The resultant circle was _maybe_ four feet across, a tight fit even for a small person like her; adding another would be tricky business indeed, but she was _very_ good at what she did. 

She smiled in satisfaction and then stepped inside the circle, reaching behind her to close it off with one last slash of her fingertip. It glowed, fuzzing to life before dying out, appearing to be nothing more than just a strange shape on the floor, but she relaxed, her shoulders slumping in relief, like it had taken _that_ to bring her to ease. 

Finally, she reached for the bag again, extracting the spark of grace and the bit of nastiness she’d needed to get before: a severed hand, half-rotting, and a handful of hair strands, scalp still attached. 

“Eugh,” she said, grimacing, but she set these in the exact center of the circle, to the millimeter, before squatting before it. “You owe me, _big_ time.”

The vial of grace came next, and she very carefully tipped the spark of it out on top of the rotting flesh. It didn’t look very much at home, she thought, but that’s where her hard work came in.

She put the vial back into her bag -- never knew when you’d need a vial, after all -- and then slapped her hands together. “Let’s do this,” she said, smirking, and she held her hands out in front of the mess.

At first, to the outsider, it wouldn’t look like anything but what it was: a strange woman kneeling before a pile of glowing garbage. The only odd bit was that she started sweating profusely, almost from the onset. Eventually, however, the room began to fill with an unearthly light.

It took days, minutes, seconds, hours -- she lost track of time entirely. But when she was done, when she put the last piece in place and her job was complete, a soft explosion rang through the motel, upsetting furniture and setting off car alarms.

There, in the center of the circle, crouched a figure. A man. She smiled in delight, tucking her hair -- still purple and annoying -- behind one of her ears.

“We’ll have to get out of here,” she said, touching him on his -- bare -- shoulder. “I might have caused a bit of a scene.”

He looked at her, and she grinned. “No use playing dumb, I know you know _damn_ well who I am. I brought you back, and boy _howdy_ , do I have work for you.”

He stood up and nodded, solemn in a way he hadn’t been in years. Millenia, maybe.

When housekeeping came to check the room thirty minutes later, there wasn’t a sign it had ever been occupied.


	4. Episode Three - Bringin' Me Out the Dark

** Episode Three - Bringin’ Me Out the Dark **

_There’s a fire starting in my heart_

_Reaching a fever pitch and it’s bringin’ me out the dark_

_Finally I can see you crystal clear_

_Go ‘head and sell me out, and I’ll lay your shit bare_

_See how I leave with every piece of you_

_Don’t underestimate the things that I will do_

_Throw your soul through every open door_

_Count your blessings to find what you look for_

_Turn my sorrow into treasured gold_

_You’ll pay me back in kind and reap just what you’ve sown_

_(You’re gonna wish you never had met me)_

\--Adele, “Rollin’ In the Deep”

_There, in the center of the circle, crouched a figure. A man. She smiled in delight, tucking her hair -- still purple, although fading -- behind both of her ears._

_“We’ll have to get out of here,” she said, touching him on the shoulder. “I might have caused a bit of a scene there.”_

_He looked at her, and she grinned. “No use playing dumb, I know you know **damn** well who I am. I brought you back, and **boy howdy,** do I have work for you.”_

_He stood up and nodded, solemn in a way he hadn’t been for years. Millenia, maybe._

_When housekeeping came to check the room thirty minutes later, there wasn’t a sign it had ever been occupied._

**\+ + + + +**

Lawrence, Kansas, had changed a lot since Sam had been here last -- nearly ten years ago.

It had never been a particularly _quiet_ city, being a university town with a lot of rambunctious students, but as Sam drove the Impala down the main strip -- Massachusetts Street -- he saw a group of people dressed as punks, complete with several mohawks and piercings, throwing rice as a couple (also dressed in punk gear) walked away from a pastor in a park. They’d clearly just been married, and as they got into the car, Sam recognized that they were both women.

“Huh,” he said. “Didn’t know Kansas allowed same-sex marriage.”

“ _Kansas_ does not,” Castiel said, from his spot in the back seat. “Douglas County, which Lawrence is a part of, rejected that portion of the Kansas constitution and allows both same-sex and other-sex partnerships.”

“I’m not even going to _ask_ how you know that,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. He navigated into the park -- they were supposed to meet Linda at the South Park Gazebo, but since there had recently been a lesbian wedding there, he didn’t know how well that would go. Either way, he found parking, figuring that Linda would be nearby. It was starting to get dim out, and the park closed at full dark, so he hoped she’d hurry, wherever she was. 

They hadn’t been waiting even five minutes when Linda walked up, irritated. “I didn’t realize there was a wedding going on there today,” she said, opening the back drivers-side door of the Impala and sliding in. Castiel obligingly made room for her. “Sorry.”

“They were a cute couple, though,” Jody said. “I wish I was young enough to pull off the punk look.”

Linda eyed Jody, looking her up and down. “I dunno,” she said, her voice suddenly strange. “I think you could pull it off.”

Jody laughed. “Well, thanks. It’s good to meet you face-to-face.” She stuck her hand over the front seat. “Jody.”

Linda shook her hand. “Linda.”

They were quiet for a few moments, before Sam spoke up. “Jody said you found something?”

“Yeah, your psychic friend,” Linda said. “I need to get ahold of Kevin, make sure he’s alright. She said she could do it, but she needed another person who knew Kevin. Most of his friends are -- well, dead or in college across the country.”

Sam quickly suppressed the bubble of annoyance he felt. He’d been called hours away from his library, where he was actually doing research to try and save his brother, for a seance? 

But he knew grief. Intimately. He knew how important this was to Linda. 

“So you met Missouri,” he said, instead, turning the car on.

“Yeah,” Linda said. “You know, in the books she’s called Nevada, and they never mention she’s black. That Carver Edlund is a _shitty_ writer. Those are pretty important details.”

Jody laughed.

“I have an appointment with her tomorrow morning at 10 a.m.,” Linda continued.

“Right,” Sam said, sighing. He turned back toward Massachusetts Street. “Where are you staying?”

“The JHawk motel,” Linda said, scrunching her nose. “It’s a while from here but it’s cheap and they take cash.”

“My kinda place,” Sam said, grinning. He turned north on Massachusetts.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam and Cas shared a room; Linda offered the other double bed in her room to Jody, who accepted, but the four of them ate dinner together. Linda was quiet as she listened to what had happened after Dean’s change, and Castiel, Sam, and Jody all tossed ideas around.

The ladies were just about to retire to their room when suddenly Castiel sat upright. “An archangel’s blade might be able to damage a Knight,” he said. “It won’t _kill_ him, but it could slow him down enough for us to capture him.”

_Again_ , Sam thought, but didn’t say. He still hadn’t told Cas that his mistake had led to Dean escaping -- of sorts. The man had enough guilt burdening him.

“An archangel’s blade?” Jody asked.

Castiel nodded and retrieved his angelic blade from the duffel Sam had packed for him. It was weird, really, to see Cas in Dean’s old jeans and T-shirts, without a sleeve to hide his sword in. 

“Like this,” Castiel said, setting it gently on the table. “Only longer. The hilt is shaped slightly different, and it is more platinum than chrome. Darker. Equally refractive, however.”

Jody sat up. “Cas,” she said. “I think Bobby had one of those in his storage unit.”

“It has to be Raphael’s,” Castiel said. “Bobby was present when I -- when Raphael was killed, and Gabriel’s was with him when he died. Michael and Lucifer took theirs to the pit, and there were only four archangels.”

“Whichever’s it is, we have an archangel’s blade,” Jody said, excited. 

“It could be a regular angel’s blade,” Sam said. “They look _really_ similar, and we had kind of a fuckton of angel blades around when Bobby died.”

Cas just looked mournful as he packed his blade back up. 

“You don’t need me for this seance, right?” Jody asked, turning toward Linda. “I never met the poor kid anyway.”

“No, just one other person,” Linda replied.

“I could go back to Sioux Falls and check,” Jody said. “I moved all of Bobby’s stuff to my cabin -- _calm down_ , Sam, it’s all protected, Bobby taught me how -- and I’ve been going through it in my spare time. I know _exactly_ where it is.”

“I could go with her,” Cas began.

“Cas, you’re human again, you barely know how to take care of yourself,” Sam said, before he could really think it through.

Cas frowned at Sam. “Sam, I lived as a human for nearly _six months_ after the Fall. I’m perfectly capable of ‘taking care of myself’.” He used finger quotes for this, and for a second Sam thought he was fucking with him. He wasn’t.

“And so am I,” Jody interjected. “I don’t need a bodyguard, Cas, although I’m glad you care.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a bodyguard,” Castiel said, glum. “But I can identify the blade itself, definitively.”

“Okay, that’s a point,” Jody admitted. She looked at Sam.

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam said, nodding. “I’m sorry, I should -- I should know better. You know how to take care of yourself. And hell, you’re good at hand-to-hand combat, human or not. I’m sorry. Tomorrow morning, you both head to Jody’s place, check the blade out.”

Jody and Linda went to rise, and Sam stopped them, sighing, as he went to his duffel bag. “But first, I need to make sure everyone’s got the right ink.” He drew out a small, hard case. It had a tattoo rig in it.

“Seriously? You’re gonna ink us up right in the motel room?” Jody said, incredulous.

“How do you think Dean and I got ours?” Sam said, chuckling. “Look, we learned all the safety procedures, and I know Linda needs a new one since Crowley ruined the old one. I don’t want any of you getting possessed. Dean’s already gone darkside, we don’t need to lose someone else.” He paused. “We even have an autoclave at the bunker, and I ran everything before we came out. I knew I’d need to get you guys done.”

They were quiet for a second before Linda seemed to resolve something in herself. “Right,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Maybe somewhere a little less conspicuous this time?”

“It’s gotta be somewhere you can check easily for breakages,” Sam said. He thought about it. “Outer thigh?”

Linda scrunched her nose, but began taking her pants off. Sam politely looked away; after a second, Cas did too, but not before offering her a pair of athletic shorts that had been in his duffel.

“Right,” Linda said, laying down. She pulled up the edge of one of the legs of the shorts. “Let’s do this.”

**\+ + + + +**

The next morning, Castiel and Jody left, freshly-inked and loaded down with every hex bag protection Sam could whip up on such short notice; Jody chose her upper arm for her tattoo, nearly the shoulder, because (and for some reason this surprised Sam) she didn’t have room on either of her thighs, which were covered with different tattoos.

“You’re not the only one who had a rebellious childhood, Sam,” Jody’d said, winking as she and Linda headed toward their room.

Cas just got his where Sam and Dean had theirs, because he didn’t have a preference. Since they were alone, the two of them had started talking, and it had devolved into a conversation about whether a former angel could even _be_ possessed by a demon.

“I’d _really_ like to not find out,” Sam’d said.

“I agree,” Castiel replied, steadily.

Linda and Sam waved them goodbye the next morning; the four of them had breakfast together before Cas and Jody departed. It was difficult for Sam to hand over the keys to the Impala; he knew Jody was a competent driver, and Cas had driven _his_ car around with great skill as well, but this was the _Impala_. 

Castiel sighed and held his hand out. “Sam, who do you think taught me to drive? And in what car do you think that happened?”

Sam relinquished the keys after that.

Still, he watched until he couldn’t see the Impala anymore -- suddenly, taking care of the car had become a lot more important, now that Dean wasn’t around to do it himself.

Finally, he turned to Linda. “Let’s do this,” he said.

**\+ + + + +**

Missouri’s house hadn’t changed one bit in the last nine years.

“I’d say the same about you, Sam Winchester,” she said, eyeing him up and down, “But I’d be lying. Come on in, you two.”

She served them tea at a round kitchen table and complained about Winchesters who never call, but it was almost like she did it because she was expected to do so. Sam sensed that she was worried about something, and Missouri then looked sharply at Linda.

“You didn’t tell him?” she demanded. Linda looked a little bit guilty and shook her head to the negative. Missouri turned back toward Sam. “We tried to contact Kevin last night and couldn’t get hold of him; I’m hopin’ the extra connection will break the veil, so to speak, between heaven and earth.” She worried at a spot on her tablecloth. “I’m not one to brag, but I’m a mighty powerful psychic. It’s just the way of things. If I can’t catch hold of a dead person’s mind, especially when his passing was recent, it’s _worrying_.”

Sam pushed the tea away from himself. “Let’s do this,” he said. “If something’s interfering with psychics, I need to figure out what it is.”

It was quick and dirty, and reminded Sam almost of when Pamela had first introduced them to Castiel by burning her own eyes out, but where there should have been a connection there was nothing. The candles Missouri had lit to help focus her talents actually fizzled out in unison; the incense crumbled to dust. 

“Could -- could it be because --” And Sam closed his mouth and just thought _really loudly_ about how Gadreel had been using his body as a vessel when he killed Kevin. He’d never specified that to Linda and he’d like to keep it from her, if possible, because despite the heavy amount of guilt Sam felt over it, he was intelligent enough to know that Gadreel’s actions weren’t his own, nor his fault.

“Oh, _no_ , honey,” Missouri said, shaking her head and patting him on the shoulder. “If anything, that’d strengthen the connection.”

Linda was crying, helplessly, which was unlike her. But Sam guessed he could understand. If he had a son and he didn’t know if he’d passed to Heaven or not, he’d be pretty upset too.

“C’mon, Linda, let’s get you up,” Missouri said. “There’s a guest room right off the landing, you just take the time you need.” She shot a glance at Sam and he was up immediately, helping Linda from one side as Missouri got the other. 

They were passing the landing when there was a knock at the door, which startled all three of them. Sam didn’t like the idea that a powerful psychic could be startled, and he immediately thrust Linda and Missouri behind him, drawing his gun from the back of his pants in one smooth movement.

For once, Missouri didn’t seem to have a single problem with his actions and peered at the door from behind him. Then, without a word, she darted in front of him -- Sam ruthlessly suppressed the thought that for a woman her age she moved fast, but Missouri shot him a dirty look anyway before throwing the door open wide.

Standing on the front stoop was Kevin Tran, alive and whole, swaying fit to fall over. 

Sam stared at him. Kevin stared back, and then focused on his mom.

“I’m here,” he managed, and then he fell over.

Sam just barely managed to catch him.

**\+ + + + +**

Castiel stared at Jody’s cabin. “ _This_ is where you’re keeping countless items of arcane worth and danger?”

Jody shrugged. “After Alex moved in it seemed safest to keep it out of her direct reach. Plus this is the closest thing to a safe house I have; you can check the wards if you like.

Castiel did, in the way all fallen angels could sense magical forces, but he didn’t say that. Instead he told a lie, dignified as possible: “Bobby Singer was very talented with wards; I’m sure he was an able instructor.”

“You mean he was paranoid as hell and nothing much got by him,” Jody corrected, grinning, as she unlocked the door.

Castiel nodded acknowledgement as the two of them stepped in. It was a little more difficult for Castiel -- while Jody’d made a slight loophole in the wards, allowing people in only if accompanied by her, Castiel still retained some slight angelic properties and wasn’t entirely _human_ , in the traditional sense. Still, he was able to walk through the wards without alerting Jody to his difficulties. 

She immediately beelined for the den, at the back of the house -- windowless, with even more powerful wards surrounding it. It was stacked nearly to the roof with _things_ \-- books, magical items, hex boxes, bags of herbs, an alarming variety of mortar/pestle combos, and something that looked like a well-worn, well-loved human cookbook. 

Castiel remembered that book, remembered that it had belonged to Bobby’s late wife. It was rare that inanimate objects developed anything like a soul; they had to be well-loved and lived, to have experienced the frequent touch of a human that valued it. The Impala had developed such a near-soul, and Castiel had an agreement with her, for at first she hadn’t liked him _at all_ ; this cookbook had a similar sentience, and Castiel accorded it a nod of respect.

Jody unerringly stepped around a stack of arcane books, both light and dark, and opened the drawer of a desk; the drawer appeared to be crammed to near-capacity with a rather astonishing variety of weapons. Including, he noted, the Colt that had gone missing in Carthage. How Bobby had re-acquired it, Castiel didn’t know, but as it lacked ammunition it was functionally useless. He’d have to let Sam know; he knew how to make the bullets it required. 

It took a few minutes, but after careful digging Jody extracted a sword, longer than Castiel’s own, and those last angelic senses pinged in response.

“It’s definitely Raphael’s,” Castiel said, holding his hand out for it. He weighed it slightly before his face fell. “It’s also useless.”

“What do you mean?” Jody demanded. “How can a sword be _useless_? It isn’t broken, there’s an edge.”

Castiel sighed and gestured for the living room, where there was actual sitting space. He carefully lowered himself into a couch; Jody sat herself next to him, watching as he sat the archangel blade on the coffee table in front of them.

“Angelic swords have some inherent properties. They can kill minor demons, they can heal some human sicknesses -- nothing major, just little things like blindness, which is an easy correction, or the measles -- they can purify water and food.” He sighed, because there weren’t words in the English language, nor any _human_ language, to really explain this next bit. “It’s just how they’re made, what they _are_. But each angel’s blade is a piece of their -- their _soul_ , I suppose you could say. My blade is a piece of me, even as I am no longer an angel, and its nearness to me is what makes it truly effective in battle.” He rubbed at his face.

“So if you knew it’d be powered down, why did we come all the way up here?” Jody demanded.

“I’d hoped that it would have been a gradual decrease in power,” Castiel admitted. “That’s what usually happens when angels die -- their swords, if they’re left, slowly lose power until they’re at their base state -- kind of like radioactive materials slowly becoming less and less radioactive as time goes on. But Raphael didn’t die a normal death, not for an angel.” 

“Is there a way to, I dunno, _charge_ it?” Jody asked. She looked suddenly exhausted, and extremely cross; the drive had been long, their phones were dead, and she was probably hungry. Castiel knew that he was starving, and he’d only recently become introduced to the sensation; Jody had to be _ravenous_.

“Another archangel could do it,” Castiel said, thoughtfully. “But to the best of my knowledge, all of the archangels are dead or unavailable.”

Jody stared at him and then sat back, sighing. “Only four archangels. Out of everything in creation, only four archangels.”

“Up until recently there wasn’t a need for more,” Castiel said.

“I’ve read the books.”

Cas nodded, sadly. “Four. Only four.”

The both of them sighed and looked out the window.

**\+ + + + +**

Missouri must be used to dealing with people overwhelmed with emotion, because she was a deft hand at it. After they got the story (which wasn’t much of one; Kevin woke up, whole and alive, on the side of the road near Kansas City, Missouri, and knew with prophetic accuracy that he _needed_ to get to Lawrence; he’d walked for three days straight before collapsing on them), she set Linda and Kevin up in the guest room for their tearful reunion. 

“I don’t like it,” Sam said, frowning, as Missouri served him more tea at the circular table and then sat across from him. “I mean, not that I’m not _ecstatic_ that Kevin’s alive and that it’s _actually him_ ,” because of course, Sam had checked, “but people don’t just...come back to life like that.”

“You and Dean do,” Missouri pointed out, taking a sip of her own tea. At the mention of Dean, Sam immediately thought of the current predicament, and Missouri’s face turned a shade of grey that was, frankly, alarming. “You should have mentioned that, Sam.”

“It didn’t exactly come up,” Sam said. He set his mug down on the table, idly spinning it in place by its handle.

Missouri shook her head. “That’s _bad news_. Dean was never meant to go darkside, not truly; he was always Heaven’s champion.”

This reminded Sam that _he_ was supposed to be _Hell’s_ champion and his mood got even more grim. Missouri reached over the table and covered his hand with hers.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Sam,” she said, sadly. “You two are made of the same stuff. I knew the Apocalypse wouldn’t go to plan; you were too _good_ , even if you did the wrong things for the right reasons. How you two turned out so decent with your daddy bein’ the way he was, I haven’t the faintest.”

Sam was mollified for the moment, but then he remembered Dean, and grief crashed through him again. Missouri delicately pulled her hand away from his, and he tried to rein back his emotions, taking a sip of tea and breathing through his nose. Finally, he set his mug back down on the table and steeled himself.

“Everything says you can’t cure a Knight,” Sam said, idly playing with the watermark the mug had made in its old spot. “They have to earn redemption the hard way.”

Missouri didn’t say anything, just listened. She probably knew what was coming, though, because her face grew grave. Sam inhaled and finally said what he meant to.

“You don’t know how to fix this, do you?”

Missouri closed her eyes. “I can’t help you, Sam.” She hesitated, and Sam’s hopes grew. “But I do know someone who can.”

**\+ + + + +**

Dean grinned, eyes glinting black and flashing yellow as he threw the man down in front of him.

“Please, please, take anything you want,” the man begged, holding his mutilated hands up to try to placate him. “Just don’t kill me.”

Dean snorted. “Maybe that’s what I want,” he said, which _he_ thought was a completely reasonable point to make.

The man went still. 

“C’mon, you gotta fight back,” Dean said. “That’s half the fun, right? The struggle. That unbeatable human spirit! Come on, dude, this is your _life_ we’re talking about.”

While he’d been talking, the man pushed himself up and began running from Dean. The demon could feel it flickering in the man’s chest when Dean didn’t immediately pursue -- _hope_.

“ _That’s_ the ticket,” he said, grinning. He disappeared, reappearing directly in the man’s path.

He flew into Dean at his top speed; it didn’t faze Dean in the slightest, but the other man was knocked backward on his ass.

“What _are_ you?” he whispered, dread coloring his voice.

His eyes flashed again -- black, yellow -- and Dean grinned. He leaned down and grabbed the man by the collar.

“Buddy,” he said, “I am your _worst nightmare_.”

**\+ + + + +**

Sam resisted the urge to stand. “Who?” he demanded, leaning forward. “Tell me _who_.”

When Missouri finally opened her eyes, she looked incredibly sad. “This person -- Sam, they’re _powerful_. Stronger than I could ever hope to be. Stronger than demons. Stronger than most _angels_ , I think. They’re immeasurably powerful.”

He stared at her for a second. “God?”

She shook her head. “No, not God. But _powerful_.”

“They can cure a Knight?” Sam asked, hopeful.

“I don’t know for sure,” Missouri said, still shaking her head, like she _really_ didn’t want to give him this information. “But Sam -- you have to _listen_ to me here. You can’t enter into deals with them lightly. You can’t go back on them. They’ll take from you what you promised them, no matter what, and there’s no bargaining.”

“He makes deals?” Sam asked, surprised. “Like a demon?”

She shook her head. “They don’t ask for _souls_ , Sam, but you might find yourself giving more than you’re willing to if you’re not careful. Don’t give more than you can, Sam Winchester, or you’re in for a world of hurt.”

**\+ + + + +**

Missouri sat on the couch with her eyes closed, patiently, waiting as she heard the sound of Linda’s rental car disappear from human hearing, and then when she couldn’t feel the touch of Sam Winchester’s mind inside of her own.

Linda and Kevin were sleeping; a brief psychic check assured that. Finally, when she was certain she wouldn’t be overheard, she opened her eyes and stood.

Moving quickly, she picked up her phone -- an old-style one, still attached to the body by a cord -- and dialed a number she’d never forgotten, despite all of the years it had been since she’d used it.

It was answered almost immediately.

“I’m sending someone your way,” she said. A pause and then, “Sam Winchester. As promised.” Laughter tinkled out of the receiver, and Missouri grimaced. “He’s hurtin’ real bad, and you know these Winchester boys -- you keep ‘em dissatisfied and they go about making world-ending choices. You be careful with him.” With that, she hung up, satisfied that she’d kept her end of the bargain -- no matter how much it had hurt.

**\+ + + + +**

On the other end of the line, a hand -- rough with use and nail-bitten -- hung up a similar old-fashioned landline. And then it got to work.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam drove all night back to Lebanon to stock up on all of his usual items, ignoring two phone calls from Jody, five from Castiel, and one from Linda Tran.

He was at the bunker for maybe an hour before he left again. Reno was a long trip from Kansas -- best to get an early start. And hell, if he started to nod off, that’s what Five Hour Energy was for.

**\+ + + + +**

She turned from the phone and surveyed the room around her. It served as a base from which she did most of her business, but it was shabby and looked unused. Mostly it was storage; she _never_ met clients here. Received calls from them, sure, but never _met_ them there. It was also overlarge; she’d better get to work.

She lifted her hands and all of the items in the room obligingly lifted along with them. She sorted quickly and efficiently; no-sale items flew to the far back right, items of mystical worth to the center back, and mostly-worthless magically but still of interest to the supernatural community, to the far back left. 

Then, with hardly any effort, she conjured walls from thin air, sectioning the items off and away from prying eyes, and partitioning the area nearest the door into an “office.” A moment’s thought and wards were placed protecting the back rooms. Basic Old Enochian, because she was being real specific: only she could enter them. Ever.

Her desk, which was shabby and old and not at all impressive, she drew in front of her, lifting it as well, and flicking through changes; metal to wood, three drawers along one side to a single filing cabinet, beveled edges, and a glossy hardwood finish. 

She felt like Tony Stark.

Finally the desk and chair were done and she went to work on other decor; adding pictures and art to the walls, statuettes and living ferns in corners that didn’t exist moments before. During this process her assistant walked in and viewed the scene with what she could only describe as scorn.

“Redecorating, are we?” she said, her British accent making it seem even more supercilious.

“I’m expecting a guest,” she replied. “Bela, you’ll have to take care of the exchange in Bermuda for me.”

Bela’s eyes flashed black. “That involves crossing an _ocean_.”

She smiled back. “I’m aware. Your things are already packed, and the charm is in your carryon. The flight should be no trouble.”

Bela sighed mightily but turned, unsurprised to see that her luggage had appeared behind her during the conversation. “Do I get a cut? Since this is out of my usual scope of business, I mean.”

“Twenty percent,” she said, absently -- she was putting the finishing touches on a fish tank, summoning fish from the aether to swim about energetically.

“Fifty,” Bela countered.

“Thirty,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Bela, you’re lucky you’re getting a cut at all. I rescued you from Hell; you _owe_ me.”

Bela sighed but gathered her things and left. 

With a last glance at the considerably smaller room, she nodded to herself and then reached down with her fingers, touching the floor. Rippling, it began to change in a wave, emanating from the center and then flowing up the walls. Cement turned to plush, regal carpeting; the walls, which previously had been drywall, covered themselves with hardwood and bookshelves, looking for all the world like a rich lawyer’s office. A brief thought toward the stack of books in the magically-useless section in the back, and they were clean and adorning those same bookshelves.

One final touch; she set up an electric fireplace in the back corner, like it was _ever_ cold in the building when she was around. Then she turned back to the door and walked out of it.

It looked like a standard single-story office building. Acceptable, although the door did not meet expectations. With a flick of the wrist, it changed from a perfectly serviceable metal door to one made of heavy oak, with impressive beveling and wooden filigree along the edges. The address letters became more ornate.

With an exhale, she walked back through the door and surveyed her handiwork. Then she looked down at herself and sighed, twitching slightly as her clothing reformed around her. Nails fined themselves down and grew out; he was only just starting out, so she’d go out and get a nice manicure, maybe even some acrylics to _really_ drive the look home. Hell, she deserved a treat; maybe she’d get a pedicure to go with it. She glanced upward, but shook her head. She _liked_ purple; the hair would stay. Even if the bangs were irritating, it helped to be underestimated.

“Now,” she said. “ _Now_ I am ready for Sam Winchester.”

**\+ + + + +**

By mutual agreement, Cas and Jody met the Trans at the bunker three days after they’d separated, hoping to hear word of Sam who had, by all accounts, fallen off the grid entirely. No one could find him, and he’d either ditched his phone or removed the battery, so Jody couldn’t even trace him electronically. He was either using cash or a credit card that Jody didn’t know about, or he’d been captured. Linda’s rental car had been found ditched in Denver the day previous, so Jody’s BOLO hadn’t even done any good.

Missouri had nothing to say to anyone and it was frustrating.

“Kevin,” Castiel said, nodding to him. “I’m very happy to see you alive.”

“I’m happy to _be_ alive,” Kevin said, grimacing anyway. He was still looking haggard from his walk to Lawrence. 

Castiel had his key to the place -- the one he’d replicated back when he’d still had grace -- and he let them in. Without exchanging words, the four of them began scouring the bunker for any trace of Sam. 

It was like he’d never been there. Kevin, who’d actually resided there the longest out of the four of them, reported no activity in any of the farthest reaches of the place.

“It’s like he just vanished,” Castiel said, frustrated. He ran his hands through his hair, tugging slightly. 

“If I know Sam,” Kevin said slowly. Everyone turned toward him and he shrugged. “He’s got his own case he’s working.”

**\+ + + + +**

“I need to know if there’s a way to cure a Knight of Hell,” Sam said. He leaned forward. “Missouri said your boss could help, and I need help. Badly.”

The woman in front of him -- nails cherry-red (matching the pristine ‘69 Chevelle SS parked out front, which Sam thought Dean might appreciate if he were... _himself_ ) hair neon-purple -- leaned forward and smiled. From the corner of the room, music played quietly; the electric fire crackled; the fluorescent lighting glinted off of the secretary’s nameplate (“J. Novak,”). Sam held his breath while he awaited her verdict.

“Well, Mr. Winchester,” the woman said, smiling, and Sam froze; he’d used a fake name at the door. On autopilot, his hand went for his gun. “My _boss_ can certainly help you with your little predicament. Which I’m told is a _doozy_.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms. Her smile turned into a smirk. “But to get to my boss you’ve got to get through me.”

Sam regarded her warily. “Are we going to have to fight?”

Her smirk broadened and she snickered slightly. “You Winchesters. So quick to fall to the sword. Let’s simplify things: to fix your problem you need my boss. To get my boss, you need me. So,” and she parted her lips to inhale deeply, almost relishing the words. “ _Convince me_.”


	5. Episode Four - Earthquakes and Lightning

** Episode Four - Earthquakes and Lightning **

_I see a bad moon rising_

_I see trouble on the way_

_I see earthquakes and lightning_

_I see bad times ahead_

_Don’t go around tonight_

_Well, it’s bound to take your life_

_There’s a bad moon on the rise_

\--Mourning Ritual/CCR, “Bad Moon Rising”

_“My boss can certainly help you with your little predicament. Which I’m told is a doozy.”_

_She leaned back and crossed her arms. Her smile turned into a smirk. “But to get to my boss you’ve got to get to me.”_

_Sam regarded her warily. “Are we going to have to fight?”_

_Her smirk broadened. “You Winchesters. So quick to fall to the sword. Let’s simplify things: to fix your problem you need my boss. To get my boss, you need me. So,” and she parted her lips to inhale deeply, almost relishing the words. “ **Convince me**.”_

**\+ + + + +**

The moon was full, surrounded by clouds. Like something out of freakin’ Pirates of the Caribbean. 

It reflected off the water in the street, lying still after a much-needed rainstorm, only interrupted when a giggling woman and her boyfriend walked right through it.

They were heading toward a club. A small one, out of the way, not well-known. 

“You’re sure?” The woman asked, her tone becoming serious, and her voice hushed. “You’re sure this is the place?”

“C’mon,” he replied, gesturing. The flashing, neon sign on the front proclaimed it “CLUB X,” with “roads” in tiny print beneath it. There was only the one entrance, and at the heavy door, a large bouncer stood, ready to take ID’s. “With a name like that, what else could it be?”

“A demon bar,” she said. Her voice hushed. “With _actual_ demons.”

“Absolutely, babe,” he said, grinning. She was looking in the opposite direction, so she didn’t notice his eyes flashing black.

Neither of them noticed their observer, standing toward the back of the alleyway. She shrugged irritably, adjusting her leather jacket, and then glanced to the side briefly. Reassured no one had spotted her, she began heading toward the club as well, pushing a length of purple hair back with bright-red nails.

**\+ + + + +**

Ashley didn’t recognize that the bouncer and Lance seemed to know each other; she didn’t see their eyes flashing at each other. She was too busy trying to catch a glimpse of the inside of the bar; when the bouncer finally let them through, her eyes went wide as she took it all in.

At the table nearest her, there was what looked like an honest-to-God _witch_ casting a spell for someone; at least, that’s what Ashley would call the blast of magic, contained in a tiny bottle and handed over for a wad of cash. The bartender was doing flare bartending in time to the music, which was bass-heavy techno-metal; she recognized the lyrics, thought it might be a remix from something her dad used to listen to. As the bartender smiled and tipped a row of shots into cups, she was pretty sure she saw a row of sharp teeth growing over his regular ones.

There was a section where women danced on stage; Ashley couldn’t tell if they were strippers or go-go dancers, but she was leaning toward that first option cuz one’d just crawled into a man’s lap. She gasped; as the woman leaned down to kiss the man, her eyes glowed red.

Her resolve steeled itself. James wasn’t gonna heal himself, and he wasn’t old enough to die. He hadn’t even _started_ yet.

Lance led her to a different table, and she just barely took in the two men standing at the back of the club, observing. One was short and wearing a suit; the other was tall and _gorgeous_ , eyes flickering between red, yellow, and black. But then Jamie sat her in front of someone, a _demon_ , a woman.

Ashley straightened her shoulders and looked the woman in the eyes.

“Ash, this is ...Well, let’s call her Betty.” This seemed to amuse Lance.

Ashley stared “Betty” in the eyes again. “I hear you’re the one to talk to if you need things to be...fixed.”

Betty smiled, teeth metaphorically razor-sharp as she smiled. It was a predatory grin, and then her eyes went red.

“Let’s talk business,” she said.

**\+ + + + +**

Crowley was actually rather proud of this establishment. It had been one of his finer ideas.

“So everyone’s a demon?” Dean asked, standing next to him. He sounded begrudgingly impressed.

“Or they owe me something,” Crowley said, spreading his hands. “I figure, if Twilight can make vampires sexy, we ought to be able to pull something off for demons, too. Easier and cheaper than crossroads deals.” He glanced around the club again. “For one, you don’t have to be summoned; you’re putting yourself out there. A legitimate business, as it were.”

“And you think this will fix your problems in Hell.” Dean didn’t seem to agree with this sentiment, as he wrinkled his nose and glanced around him, like he could _see_ the music. “Man, have some respect. What did CCR ever do to you?”

“It’s all the rage with the kiddies these days,” Crowley said. “Winchester, this one club makes more deals and takes more souls in one month than the entire _eastern seaboard_ , and we have six more of these beauties in the works across the country. We’re going to start overseas eventually, but no one likes selling their souls like Americans.”

“It’s our heritage,” Dean replied, shrugging. He kept observing, a habit left over from when he was human and paranoid something was out to get him; nowadays, nothing short of an archangel could even _consider_ taking him on, but old habits die hard.

A lot of people thought Dean Winchester was stupid. A lot of people were wrong, because he saw the one thing that stood out almost immediately.

“Looks like you have a fan,” he said, nudging Crowley with his shoulder. He nodded with his head, where a short woman with purple hair was staring directly at the two of them.

Crowley froze, which only made Dean more curious.

“Who _is_ that?” he asked. Because as far as he could tell, she was human, standard, slight psychic ability and nil as far as soul corruption or demon deals go.

“ _That_ is someone well above your pay grade, mate,” Crowley said, and he looked like he was preparing for a fight. Now that Dean could tell when he was making psychic orders, it made some of his earlier carelessness take on a sort of twisted sense. 

“I’m a _Knight of Hell_ ,” Dean scoffed. “I think I’m at the top of the pay scale, buddy.”

“Ever wonder who signs the paychecks?” Crowley countered. “Cuz it sure as hell isn’t me.” The woman was coming toward them now. “You might want to make like a tree, as the kids say.”

Dean could see it, almost in slow-motion, as every demon and supernatural creature in the bar turned toward the woman. Without actually looking at them, she spun into action.

There was a scream -- the blond girl who had just walked in and was talking to Beherit caught sight of this interloper, who’d thrown a pair of knives in opposite directions without so much as looking at who she was killing. Each of the demons, who’d been making their way towards her, flashed golden, like she just casually threw Ruby’s knife around, and their hosts fell to the ground in a pile.

The humans in the establishment _lost their shit_. Chaos erupted around them as humans and the few non-humans who weren’t actually bound to Crowley tried to escape through the single door which was, now that Dean thought about it, almost _definitely_ a fire hazard. 

Crowley turned to look at Dean, but the space by his side was very suddenly vacant.

The vampire bartender, who was just an employee and did not actually owe Crowley any favors, skidded to a stop as he came in front of the woman by accident. He’d been bee-lining toward the door. She smiled, and then gestured for him to make his way. 

As he left her vicinity, two more demons ran toward her, knives drawn. The first one received what one could only call a smiting; she slapped her hand to his forehead, and the same ghastly golden light flashed through the host before it slumped to the ground.

The second came before her and skidded to a stop. “Please,” he whispered. She made a shushing noise, grabbed him with superhuman strength, and laid her hand alongside his head. A second later he was unconscious but not, as far as Crowley could tell, dead.

She dispatched of nearly every demon in the club, which was annoying -- predominantly with well-timed nonverbal exorcisms, just enough that he’d be owing her a favor for keeping his minions around and able to take new hosts.

He noticed that she mostly did this to the ones whose hosts were still alive and thought, _I’ve got you_. 

“Emmanuel,” he began, and then paused. “Surely you’re using a different name. With the new vessel and all.”

She grinned. “I’m going by Jessie these days,” she replied, but then he felt himself being backed into a corner, and Crowley thought, maybe he _didn’t_ have her.

“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked. Politely, mind. “It’s not often you slum it like this.”

“Things have changed a lot in the last few hundred years,” she said, like she was just stating facts, and then Crowley found himself outright pinned to the wall. 

“Fergus Rodric MacLeod,” she said, and Crowley flinched, because names have _power_. And then Jessie smiled, a terrifying smile, and spoke again, with the force of the ages behind her.

“We need to talk.”

**\+ + + + +**

By the time Sam pulled up to Jody’s cabin outside of Sioux Falls (in a legitimate rental; he didn’t want to implicate the sheriff in anything more than he had to), he was exhausted and disappointed. The woman hadn’t been able to give him much, just said that her boss was going to contact him sometime soon. She couldn’t even give a definite date; soon could be two minutes from now, or it could be a billion years from now, depending on the longevity of her particular boss.

It was disheartening.

He knocked on the door, only to have it thrown open by an irate Jody Mills.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” she exclaimed. And that was about when Sam realized that it was never a good idea to piss off a woman who knew how to fire a weapon and had the legal right to do so.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam was positive Jody knew he was bullshitting her about following a hunch, but she let it be because he was alive and well and in front of her and not possessed (she checked) or a shapeshifter (he insisted on being checked).

He was pretty sure that this whole thing wasn’t going to pan out; it was a crapshoot anyway, and he didn’t want anyone else getting their hopes up, least of all Jody and Cas, who’d known Dean the best of them all.

He realized the angel -- ex-angel? What do you call someone who’s grace was removed? -- wasn’t nearby. (Alex _was_ there, however, and she was intently reading a book, the way a person does when they’re just pretending to do so. In fact, the whole room was scattered with books and arcane artifacts, and it looked like Jody and Alex had been researching up a storm.)

“Where’s Cas?” he asked.

“At the bunker. With Linda and Kevin,” Jody said, pointedly. Sam felt guilty almost immediately. “You should call him. He’s been worrying himself sick. We all have.”

“I probably should,” he admitted, hunching in on himself.

Jody sighed.

**\+ + + + +**

A phone call put _Cas_ at ease, but when Sam made to leave for the bunker Jody stopped him. “Uh- _uh_ , buster,” she said, crossing her arms as she blocked his path out. She was tiny compared to Sam, but he had a feeling she meant business. “You’ve been on the road for days. You need food, a shower, and a good night’s sleep. You’re not leaving until you get all three of those things.”

Sam slumped. He hadn’t even rented hotels the entire trip there and back -- he’d just crashed in the Impala at the nearest convenient rest stop or park-and-ride along the way. He probably _reeked_. “Yeah,” he said, frowning. “You’re probably right.” 

Jody pointed to a couch. “Sit,” she ordered. “I’ll get the food started; you can work on the shower and sleep after.”

With that she left, presumably to whatever passed for a kitchen in this cabin, and leaving Sam alone in the room with Alex. 

Awkward.

They were silent for several minutes; across the house, Sam could hear the sounds of chopping, sizzling oil, and terrifyingly, a blender. He hoped that Jody knew what she was doing.

Finally, he turned toward Alex, who actually _was_ reading now. “What are you guys looking for?” he asked.

“How to cure a Knight of Hell,” she said, raising her eyebrow. “Failing that, how to get rid of the Mark of Cain.”

Sam sat back, chills going down his spine and nausea rushing up to meet him.

By the time he’d got hold of himself, Alex was back to reading, some ancient tome that looked like it might be bound in human skin. Gross.

“Why?” he asked. “Why are you helping me?”

“It could just be that Jody told me to,” Alex replied, sweetly. Sam raised his eyebrow skeptically and she sighed, setting the book down on the table in front of her. “Or it could be that I know a little bit about family,” she said. “And loving the darkness just _because_ it’s your family.” She bit her lip and looked away. “I couldn’t save my family, Sam, but I can try to save yours.”

**\+ + + + +**

Crowley shrugged Jessie, as she was going by these days, off him, although he supposed she _let_ him shrug her off. “What in _God’s_ name could the two of us have to talk about?” he spat out. “We’re on _opposite sides_ , in case you don’t remember.”

“Well, for one,” she said, fiddling with a knife in one hand and taking in the decor of the club, casually, like she hadn’t just decimated the place. “Dean Winchester.” She wandered over towards the bar, eyeing the booze.

Instead, she picked up a paring knife from the bar and compared it to switchblade in her other hand. A wash of golden light flowed over the knife before returning to normal; seemingly satisfied, she pocketed it.

“What about him?” Crowley asked. He almost regretted it, because now Jessie turned back toward him; the impact of her full regard was _terrifying_.

“I want him,” Jessie said, shrugging. 

“He’s kind of free agent these days,” Crowley replied, even as the hairs at the back of his host’s neck stood on end. “You’d have to talk to him about that; I’m just his employer.” He spread his hands out in front of him, as if to say, _what are you gonna do with someone like that?_

Jessie smirked and got right back up into Crowley’s personal space. “You know he’s not gonna be content working for you forever,” she said. She pulled the paring knife out of her pocket, regarding it again, and then tapped the edge of it against Crowley’s still-outstretched fingers. Smoke curled and Crowley hissed, clutching his hands back to him.

“He’s a Knight, after all,” Jessie continued, like she’d never finished. “He’s more powerful than you’ll ever be, and he _knows_ it. And a Knight has one job: to rule over Hell in Lucifer’s absence. And buddy, I don’t see Lucifer anywhere around here.”

“ _I’m_ the King of Hell,” Crowley pointed out, still clutching his hands to his chest. That had stung like a bitch.

“You’re not _Lucifer_ ,” Jessie said. “That’s all that matters. You’re not Lucifer, and as far as a Knight’s be concerned, that means you ain’t _shit_.”

Crowley gaped at her. She just grinned, then flicked out a business card.

“Dean-o comes back, you give him this,” she said, tapping the knife against Crowley’s forehead this time as she pressed the card into his hands. “Whether he calls or not is up to him, but hey, weirder things have happened.”

And then she was gone. Crowley swore softly under his breath and looked at the card.

_J. Novak_

__

_Supernatural Artifacts and Supplies_

__

_Reno, NV_

__

_(775) 555-3576_

__

“Fucking _hell_ ,” he swore.

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

Down the hall, near the bathrooms, Dean stood, frozen in place. He watched as this woman, this tiny little _thing_ , who shouldn’t at all intimidate Crowley, let alone _him_ , wordlessly blessed a paring knife. 

__

He watched as she burned Crowley with it, which shouldn’t even be _possible_.

__

And he watched as she disappeared from view.

__

“Not human, then,” he whispered. And then he disappeared as well. He had business to attend to.

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

The home-cooked meal, shower, and night’s rest were long out of his system by the time Sam got to the bunker, only to find Cas and Kevin researching what could possibly have brought Kevin back to life. Castiel was happy to see him; Kevin less so, considering, but the prophet also refused to listen to anything Sam had to say on the topic of apologies.

__

“Sam,” he finally said, exasperated. “I know that wasn’t you. I know you didn’t have a choice in that shit. _Stop apologizing_. I’ll get over my trauma eventually; you should get the hell over yours.”

__

Apparently, being dead-then-resurrected gave Kevin even more balls, which Sam, quite frankly, approved of. Maybe he could avoid a second death.

__

Sam wanted to sleep for a week, but there was still one last conversation he needed to have, so finally he bucked up, made some coffee, and went in search of Cas, who’d vanished shortly after Sam began apologizing to Kevin.

__

He found him in the library proper; the main room had plenty of books, but the good shit was located here. Sam’d found the place shortly after they took over, and it was his favorite spot in all the bunker. For one, the room was _massive_ ; almost warehouse-sized, with floor-to-ceiling shelves, and all of them dedicated to _books_. Some of them were arcane; some of them were magical; a few were just works of fiction that past Men of Letters had found interesting. 

__

The best part, however, was the entryway, which served as something of a reading nook. It was smaller than the rest of the library, and had these big plush chairs and couches (big enough even for Sam’s massive frame), as well as two desk/chair combos. It was temperature-controlled, like the rest of the bunker, and despite having been closed up for half a century hadn’t even remotely smelled musty when he’d opened it up.

__

Castiel was sat, cross-legged, on one of the chairs, a book on demonology in his lap. He flipped through the pages absently, and Sam knew he was just trying to distract himself.

__

“Hey,” Sam said, offering Cas one of the mugs of coffee he was carrying. The former-angel liked his coffee mostly black, with a splash of cream but no sugar; Sam remembered and brought him exactly that.

__

“Thank you,” Cas said, politely. He set the coffee on the table next to him and then closed the book. “I assume you had something you wanted to discuss with me?”

__

“Well, yeah,” Sam replied, taken aback. “I was gonna ease into it. That’s...kind of how I work.”

__

Cas smiled, ruefully. “I apologize, Sam. You’re a good friend, but I feel like I barely know you compared to Dean.” He sighed and sat back in his chair. “That will change, with time, I suppose.”

__

“You were always Dean’s friend,” Sam began, and Cas shook his head.

__

“I spent more _time_ around Dean, this is true,” Cas said. “But when I originally made the choice to fight against Heaven, I made a choice to fight for _both_ of you. You’re both treasured friends, _good_ ones, and I regret that I never made that plainer.”

__

Sam felt a loosening, warm feeling bloom in his chest. “Yeah, anyway,” he said, sitting down in the chair across from Cas and trying not to fidget. 

__

“Yes. You had a question?” Castiel asked.

__

“ _Kinda_ ,” Sam said. “I wanted to know what’s happening with Heaven.”

__

“Currently, I have no clue. I’m out of contact with them.” Cas closed his eyes painfully. “But when I left them, I left Hannah in charge. Her plan was to go ahead with the trial against Metatron and then try to convince our earth-bound brethren to come back home.”

__

“Metatron is _still alive_?” Sam’s nostrils flared. “ _Why_?”

__

Castiel looked sad. “I’ve killed enough of my family, Sam. The angels will take care of it; most likely he will either be imprisoned for the rest of eternity, or he will be executed, but he’ll get a fair trial.”

__

They were quiet for a moment before Castiel spoke again. “Where were you? We were worried.”

__

Somehow, Sam doubted that Kevin or Linda gave a rat’s ass about his sudden disappearance, but he was gratified that Cas worried after him.

__

“Chasing a hunch,” he said. “Nothing happened, it was a bust.”

__

Cas looked at him with squinted eyes (Dean was right, it _was_ actually kind of adorable); he clearly didn’t believe a word Sam had just said. He _did_ , however, let the matter drop.

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

Jessie was walking back toward her car, pulling on her gloves -- she _loved_ her car, a _sweet_ 1969 Chevy Chevelle SS; she’d been the original owner and no matter how many vessels she went through, she made sure that her honey was taken care of -- when she was bodily thrown against the wall.

__

She laughed; there weren’t many beings who could get the slip on her and she had an inkling of who it was. Walking right into her lap, as it were.

__

Her suspicion was confirmed a second later, when Dean Winchester himself, eyes flashing black and then red, pinned her to the wall. “What do you want with me?” he demanded. The First Blade was out, and inching toward her neck.

__

“Oh, Dean,” she said, laughing again. She pushed his arm away from her neck, like there was no effort being expended at all. “Your little pokey toy won’t do anything to me, but it’s so _cute_ that you’d try.”

__

In the blink of an eye Jessie was thrown against another wall, arcing through the air. It fazed her about as much as the first attack had, and she stood up casually, sauntering back toward Dean like she hadn’t a care in the world.

__

“I gotta tell you,” she said, leaning toward him. “I think you made widdle Sammy cry. He visited me the other day, you know. _Cute_ guy. I might take him instead, what do you say?”

__

Dean froze and Jessie laughed, delighted.

__

“That’s what I thought,” she said, stepping closer, cornering him like she had Crowley. “Don’t think I don’t know about what you do in your spare time, Mister Winchester. About all those people you’ve killed. About _why_ you’ve killed them, about the things they’d done. Don’t think I don’t _know_!”

__

In an abrupt switch of mood, on her last word Jessie reached out and stabbed a knife into the brick wall behind him; rock dust showered up, cutting into his cheek. It was the paring knife from the bar; he could see the handle sticking out of the brick.

__

“I can fix it,” she said. Somewhere along the line she’d pulled out her other knife, and was trailing it along his face. It stung like a motherfucker, raising a welt in a path down the side of his face, sizzling. “I can make it better, but you’ve got to _want_ it.”

__

Dean pushed her away, and she laughed.

__

“I don’t care what you can fix. I’m not _broken_ ,” he spat.

__

“Fine, have it your way,” she said, shrugging. The knife was gone, tucked into her back pocket, and her mood had flipped again, real casual-like, like threatening a Knight of Hell was just Thursday for this bitch.

__

“But if you ever change your mind,” and she flipped another card out at him, the same one she’d given to Crowley, “Give me a call. I’ll be waiting.” She flashed another grin at him, and then turned away from him, and toward a classic car.

__

She drove away, and Dean was left staring at the exhaust trail left behind by the Chevelle. 

__

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he said.

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

Reno, Nevada, was experiencing something of a wet season.

__

Actually, it had been more like a flash flood; frankly, Jessie suspected demonic foul play and blamed Dean Winchester, but she had no proof he was in the area, and besides, the rain mostly cleared up this morning.

__

Still, the streets were a little wet, tacky in places where people had spat out their gum, letting it melt in the wet and the weather, until it slowly became one with the pavement. 

__

There was a glob of gum stuck to the bottom of a police officer’s shoe; he didn’t notice, possibly because he was too busy stringing up bright yellow “CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS” tape around the dead body.

__

It was a body, like any other, and on any other day it probably wouldn’t be a very big deal, but on this one it was very _much_ a big deal.

__

She stood, the men and women of the Reno Police Department working around her and not saying a word, staring at the body. Her face was completely blank, but inside she was screaming to the skies, crying out her rage to a higher power long gone. 

__

Instead of acting on the urge to yell, she spoke to the woman standing next to her.

__

“It’s too soon,” Jessie said. Her companion was facing the other way, perhaps keeping a lookout, and she was preternaturally still. Finally, she broke concentration long enough to nod understanding, her lengthy red hair brushing against her shoulders.

__

“The timeline’s all fucked up.” Blue eyes scanned the ground, taking in every possible bit of evidence, before she leaned back toward the redheaded woman. She caught the coroner telling one of the officers that he was baffled; that this man should, by all accounts, still be alive, and that he could give a time of death but not a cause, not unless they ordered a full autopsy, and she frowned fiercely.

__

“It’s a trickster,” she said, pushing her hair back again. She crossed her arms and nodded at the redhead. “Take care of it.”

__

A police officer stopped to take care of the gum on his shoe and caught a flash of purple at the corner of his eye; when he glanced in that direction, there was nothing there, and he shrugged. Must have imagined it.

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

Sam was shaken out of a _really_ decent sleep by Kevin, whose eyes were alight, like he was on drugs; it was _just_ like when he’d been trying to translate the demon tablet.

__

“Reno, Nevada,” the prophet said. “We have to go to Reno, Nevada. There’s a trickster.”

__

Sam was instantly alert, and he sat up quickly, almost hitting Kevin on the way up. “Reno?” he asked, wary. He’d just come from there. Was there a chance it was linked? No, it _couldn’t_ be.

__

“Reno,” Kevin said, smiling. “I saw it, a vision. We _have_ to go, we’re supposed to be there.”

__

“We?”

__

“All of us,” Kevin said, nodding. “Me, you, Cas, mom. All of us. Something’s waiting for us, and we have to go there.”

__

“Alright, Kev,” Sam said, holding his hands out and placating him. He glanced at his clock; two in the morning. “Can it wait until like...seven a.m., at least?”

__

Kevin looked disappointed, but he nodded anyway and drifted off. His time dead had changed him, and Sam wasn’t sure if it was for the better.

__

Still, dead and then not dead. Kevin was a Winchester after all. It seemed like Sam had inherited a few more family members.

__

He laid back down and tried to get back to sleep, but he couldn’t, and so finally he got up and padded down to the library. Maybe there was something there about tricksters that he didn’t know, since they’d never _actually_ come in contact with one -- just an archangel playing at being one.

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

After talking with Cas and Linda, the three adults all agreed to Kevin’s plan of them all going to Reno, but on the condition that they take separate cars. Linda wanted to take Kevin there at a sedate pace, hopefully showing up after all of the action had taken place. She was worried about him.

__

Of course, Sam made up some story for Kevin about how he and Linda needed to get a specific charm to protect from the machinations of a trickster from some place in southern Utah. The charm really did exist, and they really should have it in their arsenal for future possible tricksters, but on this particular case, Sam didn’t think it was necessary.

__

Cas had gotten pretty good at using computers after the first Fall, and he’d found what Kevin was talking about quickly. He slid Sam the printouts: four men dead, and three came back from “abductions” with weird stories. All of the victims had some sort of shady past; one guy who was forced to play the role of sex slave (complete, apparently, with a Princess Leia slave costume) was discovered to be a part of a massive human trafficking ring. Another guy, who’d died of causes that baffled the coroner, had been a customer of the first victim’s, and a K9 unit had found no less than five bodies in his back yard -- most of them prepubescent. 

__

Yet another man had come back with wild stories of being forced to relive his abusive childhood; his long-term boyfriend and their adopted son had recently filed a restraining order against him for abusing them. 

__

“Is there any connection between the vics?” Sam asked. He was irritable and on his fourth cup of coffee; he hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after Kevin woke him up.

__

“Not much of one,” Cas replied, frowning. “They were all patrons of a local gay bar, Tronix.”

__

Sam sighed. Of _course_ it was a gay bar; perverts everywhere liked to hang out at gay bars, because gay or straight, people just assumed the worst out of the scene. Really, it was insulting to the queer rights movement. “Right. Well, let’s get packed up and we can head out.”

__

He tried not to feel too upset that they were heading to a case in Reno; Dean’d always hoped there’d be one there, and despite claims otherwise, Reno was actually pretty far from the supernatural, so they’d only ever passed through. Even Niveus hadn’t actually been located inside Reno proper; they’d never really gotten a chance to take in the scene.

__

They pulled out of Lebanon not even an hour later; Reno was a _minimum_ of a day-long trip, and that was only if Sam and Cas slept in shifts in the car and drove pretty much constantly.

__

_One of these days_ , Sam thought, as he caught sight of the bunker disappearing in his rearview mirror. _One of these days I’ll be able to stay for longer than 24 hours_.

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

Reno was flush with Winchester-style shitty motels; unfortunately, however, the nearest temporary housing near Tronix was at the Grand Sierra Resort, a gigantic hotel-casino. Sam balked at this when Castiel told him where to go, and eventually they found smaller and cheaper accommodations at the Gold Coin Motel on Fourth Street.

__

The two of them tried to don suits -- Cas wasn’t short by any means, but he was lean, and Dean’s suit _swam_ on him. Finally, Sam gave up trying to make Cas look respectable in Dean’s old clothes and made the trip to a Men’s Wearhouse to get him something cheap and off-the-rack. He swung by a Jack in the Box on their way back to the motel; it wasn’t often he was out west, and Jack in the Box was a rare fast food luxury.

__

“I don’t understand why this is so important,” Castiel said, frowning at the tie hanging from his neck. He adjusted it so it wasn’t so tight.

__

“We’re posing as the FBI, Cas,” Sam said, exasperated. He handed Cas a burger. “We have to look respectable. Jeans and a Zep T-shirt aren’t gonna cut it.”

__

“Why not members of the ACLU?” Castiel asked, reasonably. “Office casual. No ties.”

__

“What’s your beef with ties?” Sam asked, curious. And then, “How do you know what the ACLU _or_ office casual is?”

__

Cas shrugged. “Metatron.”

__

Sam didn’t want to know.

__

“The _ties_ , Cas,” he prodded, before biting down into his burger. Oh yeah. That was the stuff. Sam liked healthy food as a general rule, but every now and then he got a craving for junk food. And no one did junk food like Jack in the Box.

__

Cas shrugged. “I just prefer ...less constricting outerwear.”

__

They finished eating and exited the motel. Looking around him for the first time, Sam grimaced and admitted to himself that maybe the Winchester penchant for cheap motels wasn’t the best idea. It looked like they were in the absolute _worst_ part of Reno; homeless men were wandering around listlessly and he spotted at least two illegal prostitutes of indeterminate gender within walking distance of the Impala. A small part of his mind worried about them; the people most likely to be preyed on by other humans, the ones who no one cared about. But he had things to do, a case to work.

__

Gesturing to Cas, the two of them got into the car and drove to Tronix. Castiel had done a little more research while they finished their lunch and discovered that the bar had recently come under new ownership; previously, it had been a country gay bar (Sam wondered how that even _worked_ ) and now it catered to a less-conservative (Sam _still_ questioned this) gay population, mostly comprised of local University of Nevada, Reno students who didn’t like the other two gay bars in town -- Carl’s and 5Star. Sam liked the new owner for the Trickster; the deaths started happening right after it had been purchased.

__

The bar wasn’t open, _per se_ ; their official operating hours were from four in the afternoon to three in the morning. The bar staff, however, were there already, beginning preparations for what looked to be a surprisingly busy Sunday evening. Finals week had just wound down to a close at UNR, and the students were in full-on celebration mode if the noise from other local bars was anything to go by.

__

The bar staff had very little information for them; after the initial uproar over why the hell the both of them (clad in suits and flashing FBI badges) were in a closed gay bar, they settled down into an easy pattern of asking questions as the staff sliced limes and stocked bottles of beer in a cooler.

__

As far as they could tell, there was _nothing_ unusual about Jessie, the new owner, aside from her being an uncommonly awesome boss. All of her staff were formerly-homeless, some of them ex-prostitutes; _all_ of them were gender or sexual minorities, and a chunk of them were people of color. They all reported the same thing: that they’d all been completely unable to find jobs for whatever reason (that a huge amount had never even graduated high school after being kicked out of their homes by conservative parents probably contributed to that), and then suddenly out of nowhere Jessie offered them one. They all made a living wage plus tips, had excellent benefits packages that met or exceeded ACA guidelines, and had flexible schedules (the bartender Sam talked to had a son and according to her, Jessie’s willingness to work around her son’s needs was a godsend). Every staff member was exceedingly loyal to her, and reluctant to give any information that could seem to implicate her in anything. Each one also spent a ridiculous amount of time staring at Castiel. Sam wondered if being an ex-angel was like.... gay candy or something. Except the transgender lesbian bartender had stared at him like that too. Whatever, Sam didn’t know or care at this point.

__

“It’s almost like she’s too good to be true,” he said, as they exited through the front door and into the parking lot. The bar was about to open, but the sun was still out; summer didn’t officially start for over a month, but it had the desert by the balls by mid-April most years. 

__

“I admit, it is unusual,” Castiel admitted. “Not many employers take such good care of their employees.” Then he froze, staring at something in front of him.

__

“Cas?” Sam asked, turning toward him. He followed his gaze and then his jaw went slack. “Oh, my God.”

__

Staring back at them from across the parking lot, equally stock-still, was Castiel’s double.

__

Blinking, the double spoke, in a voice Sam hadn’t heard in years. “ _Castiel_?”

__

And like he’d been punched, Castiel reeled back. “ _Jimmy_?”

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

It took nearly thirty seconds -- Sam counted -- for Castiel to regain something resembling vocal faculties.

__

“How is this _possible_?” Cas said. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck, he was so stunned. He walked around Jimmy, as if trying to discern strings pulling the other man along, circling him twice before stopping where he’d started. “This _isn’t_ possible.”

__

Jimmy shrugged. He looked resigned. _Bitter_. “I don’t think this is a conversation that’s really good for the parking lot. My place is kind of out of the question right now, but we could get coffee or something.” 

__

“Still a little public for my taste,” Sam said. He was trying to take this whole thing in stride. Because running into your angel-buddy’s vessel -- while he was presumably still _wearing_ said vessel -- was _totally_ an everyday occurrence. “Why don’t we go back to our motel room?”

__

“Because Winchester motels are so secure,” he said. Still bitter. Then, quieter, “You’ll have to drive. They took my license away after that, uh, schizophrenia diagnosis.”

__

“Jimmy,” Cas began.

__

“Can we not?” Jimmy replied. He looked outright _pained_.

__

“Fine,” Cas said, snappish, and yeah, the ride to a motel was tense from then on.

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

“It was _weird_ ,” Jimmy said. In a strange parallel to the last time they’d gotten an infodump from Jimmy, the man was sitting at a table, only this time he was drinking tea, calmly, and eating some Middle Eastern dish with a fork. “I’d kinda just resigned myself to being a vessel for a few millennia, you know? And I couldn’t see _everything_ that was going on, but I could see it when Cas decided to rebel. I _watched_ it. Weird, by the way, watching yourself do things that you’re not in control of.”

__

“ _Tell_ me about it,” Sam muttered. He pushed a dumpling around on his plate. Something about Jimmy’s reappearance, other than him looking _exactly_ like Castiel, was putting him on edge. Something at the very back of his mind that he couldn’t quite pull to the forefront.

__

“So, we’re standing in that kitchen with the prophet, and then _nothing_ ,” Jimmy said, shrugging. He took a sip of his tea. “And then I woke up on the side of the road in Pontiac, completely in control, about a day later. I figured the angels killed Castiel and dumped me somewhere, and no offense, but I was pretty grateful for it.”

__

“Understandably,” Castiel said. He’d sort of hunched in on himself and was playing with his food, instead of eating. 

__

“Anyway,” Jimmy continued, and it was obvious that he wasn’t about to turn the other cheek for Castiel any time soon. “That’s pretty much what I thought until like two, three years ago, when a bunch of news stories crop up about a guy going around claiming to be the new God, and when they got footage of him --” and he sighed at that point. “Amelia and I didn’t...we couldn’t work it out, and we’d split up by then, but we’re still _friends_ , and she helped me go into hiding, and then she and Claire did the same. Meanwhile, I’m getting these headaches, _migraines_ really. Plus, I lost my wife, my kid, my job. No one respected me. It’s fucking me up, you know? So I took off and kinda went wherever. When I rolled into Reno I was basically sleeping in a gutter every night, totally homeless and tanked off my ass.”

__

Castiel looked very much like he wanted to be _anywhere_ other than at this table. Sam felt for him, really, but he wondered what the angels expected, taking vessels that had families and friends waiting for them back home.

__

“And then out of nowhere, my twin sister shows up,” Jimmy continues, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I’m not sure why I even came to Reno, but I knew my sister was here and maybe subconsciously I thought she’d help me.”

__

Cas frowned. “Jesselyn? She’s still here?”

__

Jimmy glared at him. “How do _you_ know about her? Also, she’ll _kill_ you if she catches you calling her Jesselyn. She ditched that name when she split with my parents.”

__

Cas looked deeply disconcerted. “Older by a few minutes, and very much the black sheep of the family. Correct? I tried her as a vessel first, but she’s a staunch atheist.” He looked guilty for a second before admitting, “When I spoke with her she had herself committed for a 72-hour mental health watch.”

__

“Wait, my sister is a vessel?” Jimmy asked, surprised.

__

Cas frowned. “Of _course_ she’s a vessel. The ability is genetic, it runs in the blood. Jesselyn -- _Jessie_ \-- and you are fraternal twins and both developed from the same basic genetic coding.” He was quiet for a moment before asking, “Did Jessie ever reconcile with your parents?”

__

Jimmy bit his lip for a second before nodding. “Not my dad, but my mom’s still alive and kicking and apparently they’re on speaking terms now. Of course, mom’s practically disowned _me_ , what with the whole openly bisexual and schizophrenic thing.”

__

Castiel looked ill.

__

“Anyway, Jessie found me, right around when she was re-opening this bar. It was basically the talk of the queer community, because most of the other gay bars are kind of skeevy, so _everyone_ showed up. She got me cleaned up, had me show up at the grand-reopening, dragged me over to the bartender, and told them I was her brother and I was _never_ allowed to pay for drinks.” He smiled. “I’m doing her PR and advertising now.”

__

“That explains why the staff was staring at Cas,” Sam said, smirking. Then he froze. “Wait, Jessie? Jessie Novak? _J. Novak_?”

__

“Uh, yeah, that’s her name,” Jimmy said, looking at Sam strangely as the taller man began swearing. “I take it you know her?”

__

“Maybe,” Sam said. “Purple hair?”

__

“I dunno, it changes,” Jimmy said, shrugging. “I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, it might be purple now?”

__

“Sam?” Castiel asked, turning toward him. Sam shook his head. 

__

“It’s probably nothing,” he said. He was frowning the frown of someone trying and failing to connect the dots. “Definitely nothing.”

__

The J. in J. Novak could mean anything, right? Anything. This might not be the same person. Best not to get his hopes up.

__

“Look, why are you guys investigating my sister’s bar?” Jimmy asked. Then he paused. “And where’s Dean?”

__

Castiel’s face, which has been curiously alert prior to this, shut down completely. Jimmy blinked and shook his head, understanding that this topic was, apparently, off-limits.

__

“Seriously, though,” and Jimmy looked worried. “Why my sister’s bar?”

__

“There’ve been a few deaths,” Sam said, taking over for Castiel, who seemed to be brooding. “And abductions.”

__

“Oh, yeah, _those_ guys,” Jimmy said, shuddering. “Talk of the town. People think there’s some crazy anti-gay serial killer on the loose. This one of _your_ things?” At Sam’s nod, Jimmy let out a sad sigh and fiddled with his last dumpling, using the side of his fork.

__

“The only thing we could find on them was that they all patronized your sister’s bar,” Sam said.

__

“Nah, that’s not the only thing they had in common,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. He looked up from his plate. “They all got 86’d within the last few weeks for being creepers. Jessie has a big policy about creepers, and the policy is _zero-tolerance_. And, of course, they were all queer; I’ve even got pictures of a group of us from last Pride that some of ‘em are in.”

__

Jimmy pulled out his phone and flicked around for a few seconds before handing it over to Sam; sure enough, two of the dead vics and one of the abductees stared back at him; Jimmy and an unknown man with a pretty face and close-cropped, mid-brown hair were standing with their arms around each other, their faces smeared with day-glo rainbow paint.

__

Suddenly uncomfortable, Sam handed the phone back to Jimmy.

__

“Are you happy?” Castiel blurted out, suddenly. Jimmy looked back at him, blinking, and Cas repeated himself. “Are you happy with your life now? I know it’s not what you imagined for yourself --”

__

Jimmy nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. I mean, I’ve carried this huge grudge against you for years, _Castiel_ , but...I’m happy. I still get to see Claire now that I’ve gotten my shit together, I have a job I love, the headaches are gone now that I’ve got healthcare -- cluster headaches, they call ‘em, but a psychic I know thinks it was some sort of angelic residue -- I’m out of the closet, and my boyfriend is kind of amazing.”

__

“I’m glad that you’ve found happiness,” Castiel said, eyes downcast. “Despite everything I put you through.”

__

Jimmy shook his head and sighed. “I guess you’re...the reason I’m happy, in a weird, roundabout way. I was miserable in Pontiac. I hated my job, I hated that I couldn’t come out as bisexual to anyone, not even my _wife_ , I hated the city, and I missed my sister. And then out of nowhere, this being, this _angel_ , one of God’s _warriors_ , comes in and possesses me and he tells me that I’ve got it all wrong, that it’s okay to be queer, that divorce isn’t a sin as long as you don’t abandon your family, and that I wasn’t going crazy, that I was actually talking to an angel.” He sighed again. “I’m still mad at you, Castiel, but someday I’ll forgive you.”

__

Cas started. “That’s not --”

__

Jimmy laughed; it was a sad laugh but there it was. “I know that’s not what you were angling for; you’re too direct for that. But someday I _will_ forgive you. I’m still mad, though, so today isn’t that day.”

__

He stood up and headed toward the door of the room. “Hey, I might even call you when I do it.”

__

The door closed behind him, almost resolutely, and Castiel stared after it. He looked ill.

__

**\+ + + + +**

__

It was weighing on his mind; Sam hated lying to the people he loved, even if it was lies of omission. After so many years of doing it almost instinctively he was just so _tired_ of it. 

__

So finally he broke down and called Cas over to the table. Up to that moment, Cas had been watching some bizarre reality show about a pawn shop on the shitty cable the motel offered, and he almost looked grateful to be torn away from it.

__

“What’s wrong?” he asked, after taking in Sam’s expression for a few moments. He sat down opposite the hunter.

__

“I’m pretty sure I’ve met Jessie Novak,” Sam admitted, grimacing. “When I went off the grid last week? I was here, in Reno. Missouri gave me a lead to someone she thought might be able to help Dean. Jessie works for them.”

__

Castiel chose his next words carefully. “Only God’s grace could cure Dean, Sam. I highly doubt Jessie is working directly for my father -- remember, when I encountered her she was a staunch _atheist_. I don’t think five years and a single encounter with an angel is going to take her from that to devoted, _in-person_ servant.”

__

Sam would have replied to that, but there was a knock at the door. Instantly alert, both men stood quietly, palming weapons that, on instinct, they’d kept nearby. Somehow, Sam wound up with an angel blade and Castiel with a gun, which would be hilarious if someone wasn’t _knocking on their door_ \-- after all, no one but the Trans and Jimmy were supposed to know they were here, and Linda’d texted an hour previous to say they’d just reached southern Utah.

__

It was alarming.

__

Silently, Sam crept to the door, which naturally didn’t have a peep-hole. He hid the blade behind his back and cracked it open.

__

And then, with a startled, wordless exclamation, he backed away so quickly he ran into Castiel.

__

The door swung open to reveal a woman with long red hair and pale, beautiful skin. They knew her -- of _course_ they knew her. She smiled, and it was her old smile, the awkward one she’d adopted once she’d re-swallowed her grace.

__

“Anabiel,” Castiel said, eyes wide.

__

“Still going by Anna these days,” she said. “May I come in?”

__

“That depends,” Cas said, seriously, “on whether you’ve come to hurt Sam or I.”

__

She shook her head and held up both hands, unarmed. “I come in peace.” She smiled again. “Take me to your leader.”

__

Sam raised an eyebrow but let his hand drop, showing that he had an angel blade. Cas did the same with the gun. She nodded at both of them and stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind her.

__

“How are you alive?” Cas asked, stunned.

__

Anna’s smile turned enigmatic. “A little help from a friend, I suppose. It’s a long story, and honestly, it’s not mine to tell right yet; just know that you are not unique, Castiel. Trying to fight the good fight gets you points with the higher-ups. I only came to let you know I took care of the Trickster problem, personally. You don’t need to be in Reno anymore.”

__

“I have it on prophetic authority that I’m supposed to be here,” Sam said, quirking his eyebrow.

__

“The _prophet_ needs to be here, yes,” she said. “And he’ll be here tomorrow, probably, thanks to your machinations -- good job, by the way, wouldn’t want him to have to deal with a Trickster since he’s the last of this generation left. But Reno doesn’t need you any longer, and it would be best, for now, if you left.” She looked, for a second, like she was listening to something, before she focused back on them. “Not that the reunion wasn’t pleasant, despite the artillery.” She nodded solemnly to each man in turn, and then, with a sound neither Castiel nor Sam had heard in over a year -- ever since the angels fell -- she vanished.

__

Openmouthed, Sam and Castiel stared at the door. Both of them felt, with an instinct borne of being around Dean Winchester for long stretches of time, that they had stepped into something well over their heads.

__


	6. Episode Five - Out of the Darkness

** Episode Five - Out of the Darkness **

_Stare at the faces I once knew_

_Lined up just to bury me_

_There’s a long black car that’s waiting to leave, but right now_

_There’s someone lookin’ out for me!_

_I came out of the darkness_

_With a bullet in my hand_

_I got one more shot at livin’_

_I’m lucky that I can_

_Cuz I got a little roughed up_

_Yeah, I really got fucked up_

_I came out of the darkness_

_With a bullet in my hand_

\--Redlight King, “Bullet In My Hand”

_“How are you alive?” Cas asked, stunned._

_Anna’s smile turned enigmatic. “A little help from a friend, I suppose. It’s a long story, and honestly, it’s not mine to tell right yet; just know that you are not unique, Castiel. Trying to fight the good fight gets you points with the higher-ups. I only came to let you know I took care of the Trickster problem, personally. You don’t need to be in Reno anymore.”_

_She looked, for a second, like she was listening to something, before she focused back on them. “Not that the reunion wasn’t pleasant, despite the artillery.” She nodded solemnly to each man in turn, and then, with a sound neither Castiel nor Sam had heard in over a year -- ever since the angels fell -- she vanished._

_Openmouthed, Sam and Castiel stared at the door. Both of them felt, with an instinct borne of being around Dean Winchester for long stretches of time, that they had stepped into something well over their heads._

**\+ + + + +**

Dean grinned, an unholy light gleaming in his eyes as he reached down to pick up the man by the scruff of his shirt.

“Please...stop,” the man begged. His face was bloody; unrecognizable from the charming, trustworthy facade that had been there hours before.

“I’ll stop,” Dean assured him, eyes flicking yellow and then back to black. He leaned forward and put his lips right next to the man’s ear, tugging him up even further from the ground. The man -- Aidann? Adam? A-D-something -- whimpered in pain.

That’s right. Dean had broken his legs first.

“I’ll stop when you _remember her name_ ,” he whispered. The man stilled, immediately. Dean threw his head back and laughed, and then --

“Dean Winchester,” said a voice, behind him. Which was unusual, cuz not many beings could sneak up on him. Dean turned, slowly, letting the man drop to the ground. Another pained whimper followed this action, but Dean ignored it.

“You rang?” he asked, grinning. Before him was a group of ten or so demons, arrayed like this was gonna be a _fight_. Which was...good. Dean could use the practice. The Mark wanted murder? He could give it murder.

“Oh, don’t let us interrupt,” said the lead demon. Her true face was something glorious and unholy, but she was wearing the meatsuit of a middle-aged banker; white, male, in a suit.

One of Crowley’s, maybe.

“What do you want?” Dean asked. The First Blade was tucked securely into his belt, and he itched to reach for it.

The demon looked him up and down a few times before crossing her arms -- which looked hilarious when done in the body of a balding, middle-aged white man. “To serve you.”

This was not what Dean was expecting. “Wait, what?”

“To serve you,” she repeated, and the other demons nodded, murmuring amongst themselves. “The true King of Hell.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Dean pointed out, smirking. “But doesn’t that post belong to Crowley?” The murmuring increased in volume, slightly.

Another demon piped up -- this one wearing a little girl, eerily reminiscent of Lillith, only the little girl seemed to have died before her body was picked up as a meatsuit. Her eyes flashed red. Dean’d heard that some crossroads demons preyed almost exclusively on pedophiles; seems he’d just met one.

“That post belongs to whoever claims it and seizes enough power to keep it,” she said, her high-pitched voice settling the other demons down. “It’s _supposed_ to be a Knight, like Lilith or Abaddon or Caine. Or you.”

“In Lucifer’s absence,” the first demon continued. “You’re supposed to be our King. We want to serve _you_. Not _Crowley_.” This was said with some disdain. 

Dean pondered this for a second. It felt... _right_. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said, winking. “Do I gotta kiss you now?”

The first demon snorted, eyes flashing black. “Just tell us what to do, and it’ll be done. There are more of us -- a _lot_ more of us -- who’ll fight for you. Your Lordship,” she added in, almost as an afterthought.

“Right,” Dean said. He winked again and then jerked his head toward the man, who’d started trying to claw his way to freedom while Dean spoke to the demons. “I just gotta take care of some business, and then we’ll get to work.”

**\+ + + + +**

Anna’s resurrection and appearance had Cas spooked, but Sam was running on empty and insisted on a good night’s sleep. Besides, they still had to hand off one of the keys to the bunker to the Trans. 

Since they’d waited this long, Cas wanted to stop at Biggersons before leaving, something about nostalgia, and Sam wasn’t averse to the idea. They’d waited until the Trans showed up -- only a few minutes after check-out at the motel -- and handed over one of the keys before heading east. Kevin still felt, _desperately_ , that he was supposed to be in Reno right now.

Linda would follow her son anywhere.

Keys and weaponry in hand, the Trans left the motel and headed for something a little classier -- The Nugget Resort Casino in Sparks had good prices and nice rooms, Linda mentioned. Sam felt vaguely chastised and tried to remember that for the next time he was here -- which hopefully wouldn’t be for a _long_ time. He’d had just about enough of Reno for a lifetime.

So now they were in a Biggersons. Sam honestly hadn’t been to one in years, since Famine, and he was surprised at how the menu was still the same, down to the price for a cup of coffee. Castiel shrugged and smiled when Sam brought it up, but didn’t comment on it.

He pondered the healthy fruit options but decided that if he was going to eat breakfast in _Reno_ he might as well have a cheat day (again) and ordered a full breakfast option, with eggs and sausage and hash browns. Castiel ordered a stack of pancakes and a cup of coffee; Sam tried not to feel nostalgic over someone’s _food choices_ , for God’s sake, nor that Castiel apparently had the same taste in food that Dean did.

Sam wondered if Dean even needed to eat now. He shook his head and smiled at the waitress as he handed her back the menu. It wasn’t a real smile, but the one she gave him in return wasn’t either.

“She’s worried about her son,” Castiel said, frowning at the woman’s retreating form. “Some illness that she has to pay medical bills for.”

Sam raised his eyebrow. 

“She was thinking it quite loudly,” Cas said, defensively. 

“I thought you were out of grace,” Sam said. Cas shrugged; he didn’t used to do that, and Sam wondered if it was a natural human habit or if he’d been watching the Winchesters surreptitiously for human cues. 

“I’m out of grace, but I’m not...not quite _human_ ,” he replied. “Human enough to need to sleep and eat and wash myself, probably to get sick even, but I can still discern _some_ things. Strong emotions, particularly loud thoughts. I’d have been able to tell if this was a Trickster or something else, had I come into contact with it, I expect. I knew Anna immediately, even if she’s... stronger now. She wasn’t trying to hide herself.”

“So... psychic?” Sam tried not to worry over Anna being _stronger_.

Cas shrugged again. “Near enough for government work.”

Sam raised his eyebrow. “Where’d you get that one?” One last shrug was given him and then the waitress came back with their coffees. 

Castiel seemed unduly worried about the woman’s son and it showed -- he only ate half of his pancakes. 

“What’s wrong with her kid?” Sam asked. He popped the last bit of his toast into his mouth and chewed it.

“I’m not sure,” Cas replied, squinting. “Some sort of serious illness. Cancer, perhaps. But she’s not worried about _what_ it is, just that her son is sick and might die, and that it’ll be expensive to fix. Medicaid won’t cover it?” He blinked, clearly trying to parse that sentence into something that made sense to him. “What’s wrong with humans, not taking care of medical expenses? Shouldn’t that be... something you do?”

“A lot of people agree with you,” Sam said, carefully. He didn’t really want to get into a political debate with Cas in the middle of a Biggersons, even if he did agree with him. “And a lot of other places -- the UK, Spain, Japan -- have socialized healthcare that makes sure people get medicine even if they’re poor. But the US doesn’t have that.”

“That’s _disgusting_ ,” Castiel said, scrunching up his nose. Sam suppressed a snort. “That is _not_ what you’re supposed to do. Humans are supposed to take care of each other. That’s your _entire purpose_ here.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam said, shrugging. He sensed another person near him and assumed it was the waitress, until he got a whiff of sulfur. He was immediately on the alert and he jerked his head in the direction of them.

“How sweet,” a British accent said. It’s owner smiled, cloyingly. “Didn’t we meet in a Biggersons the first time, Sam?”

He stared at her, brain trying to parse what he was seeing. “ _Bela_?” he asked, incredulously. She looked the same as she had when she’d died -- _years_ ago, right before Dean had - the first time. Even down to the manicured nails and obviously salon-crafted hair.

“The one and only,” she said, grinning. Her eyes winked black and then back to normal. “My boss said you were in town and I said to myself, ‘Oh, Bela, it would be so _good_ to say hi to the Winchesters again, it’s been _so long_. It feels like hundreds of years!’” Her smile turned into a smirk. “Of course, when I say hundreds of years, I’m _not_ being figurative.”

“I - “ Sam began, pushing himself back into his booth chair. 

“Don’t worry,” Bela said, dismissively. She waved her hand. “I made my deal, Sam; I’m not going to blame you for this. I mean, a _looksie_ would have been nice; knowing someone was thinking about me would have been _great_. But I made my bed.” With that, she slapped her hand down on the table, startling both Sam and Cas. “I assume this is Castiel, since your usual partner-in-crime is as black-eyed as I am. Charmed.” She removed her hand from the table and held it toward Cas; gingerly, he took it and shook it. 

“So you know about Dean,” Sam said. She laughed. 

“Sweetie, who _doesn’t_ know about Dean? Every demon _and_ some of the others heard when Dean Winchester went darkside. There’s rumblings of a faction who wants to overthrow Crowley and install him as King.” A shiver went down Sam’s spine. Dean, King of Hell?

“Of course, a look-in wasn’t the only reason I came to see you,” Bela said, gesturing to the table, where she’d hit it. Almost innocently lay a pair of necklaces. Castiel’s eyes widened as he reached for one. “They’re good luck charms. Shit’s about to get _real_ , boys; figured you might need all the help you can get.” With that, she winked, flashing her demon eyes one last time, and sauntered out of the building.

“Bela Talbot, I assume,” Cas said, absently, as he admired the necklace. They were iron pendants with some obscure language etched into them; even Sam could sense their power. “Although that’s not her _true_ name. She should still be in Hell.”

“She should,” Sam agreed, wary. He reached over and snagged the other amulet. “What are these?”

“Very, _very_ good protection,” Castiel said. He set his down and pointed. “It’s written in Old Enochian. The dialect we -- angels -- spoke when we were first created, before we learned to eliminate extraneous words and phrases. _Very_ archaic; it’s older than the universe. Some of the newer angels don’t even _know_ it.”

“So two questions,” Sam said, leaning forward. “One, how does Bela know Old Enochian, and two, why is she giving these to us for free?”

Cas shook his head. “Bela _doesn’t_ know Old Enochian. Even accounting for her extra time in Hell, she wouldn’t have had the time to learn. There are billions upon _billions_ of words and the syntax is a _nightmare_. This is _flawless_ ; whoever made these has either dedicated _thousands_ of years to learning the language, or was born knowing it.”

“You think an angel made them?” Sam asked. Castiel frowned.

“I don’t know. I don’t sense any angelic intent.”

“So why did she give them to us?” Sam asked. “These have to be _priceless_.”

“Certainly they’d offer protection to nearly anyone who wore them,” Castiel said. Apparently the amulet passed his inspection, because he slipped the band over his head and let the charm slide under his shirt. Sam did the same. “But they were created specifically for _us_ , Sam. The one I am wearing names me, _specifically_ : Castiel, Angel of the Lord, captain of the first garrison of Michael’s company of the Kingdom of Heaven, friend to humans Samuel and Dean Winchester, Angel of Thursday. Yours names _you_ , Samuel Winchester, son of Mary and John Winchester, brother of Dean Winchester, chosen vessel of Lucifer, friend of the angel Castiel, descended of Cain and Abel’s line.”

Sam’s eyes widened and he squinted at the amulet; it was about an inch long, half an inch wide, absolutely _covered_ in the runic alphabet of Enoch.

“The language is very formal and covers all loopholes,” Castiel continued. “Magically speaking, this amulet is the closest we can be to cloaked and bulletproof.”

“Is there a way to track these?” Sam asked. 

“I expect so,” Cas replied. “But if there is, it’s not in the language and must be within the actual material. But anyone who wants to protect us enough to go to this effort, I don’t think I’m worried about them knowing where I am.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sam said, darkly. Still, he put the amulet on before asking for the check. Then he had a thought. “This is _Reno_. What are the chances that Bela shows up in the same place I met Jessie Novak, who claims her boss can cure Dean, and gives us two amulets in a language older than the universe itself?”

“It could be a coincidence,” Castiel said. He still wasn’t convinced that the woman Sam met was Jimmy’s sister.

Sam shook his head.

“I think we should check Jessie’s place out before we leave,” Sam said. The waitress arrived with the check, smiling her strained smile, and set it on the table. Sam tipped in cash, a hundred percent. 

He hoped it’d help the waitress with her medical bills.

**\+ + + + +**

Bela walked into the office, still plush from Jessie’s little reorganizing spree last week. Jessie was sitting at her desk, going over some sort of paperwork; Bela forced herself to be disinterested. It wasn’t her job to deal with paperwork.

“You deliver my gifts?” Jessie asked. She didn’t look up from her paperwork, and actually reached over for an old-fashioned fountain pen to sign off on some things with it, but Bela didn’t believe for a second that Jessie didn’t have her full attention on Bela and what she said.

“I did,” Bela said. She crossed her arms. “I even waited around outside to make sure they put them on. Which, by the way, I would like to point out that you did _not_ ask me to do but I did anyway. Because I’m just a _shining_ employee like that.”

Jessie looked up at her and grinned; Bela liked Jessie, was grateful to her for rescuing her from Hell, even thought she was a decent person in her own way, but when you had the full impact of her gaze, it was frightening. It was an old gaze, a powerful one. She’d once encountered an Old God, when she was fresh out of Hell, and he’d had a stare similar to that.

“Good. Thank you, Bela,” she said. She looked back down at her paperwork. “I have another job lined up for you; it’s ‘Stateside, so you won’t need to take a plane. This time you get fifty percent.” To Bela’s surprise, Jessie gathered the papers she’d been working on, tapped the stack on the desk to align them, and handed the whole sheaf to Bela. Digging through her desk, she eventually removed a set of keys and a company credit card in Bela’s assumed name. “Take my car; here’s a card for gas and anything else you might need. Don’t worry about the receipts; this is important and I don’t care how much you need to spend to get it. Try not to kill anyone, and don’t scratch the paint if you can help it.” She smiled. “Go _now_.”

Bela nodded and tried not to feel faint. Jessie _did not_ loan her car out to just anyone; she was insanely protective of it, despite the fact that Bela was almost positive that if she wanted to she could take it, wreck it, and restore it back to mint condition with a flick of her hand. She knew that this meant Jessie had decided to trust her, a _demon_ ; almost awed, she backed up, nodded, and then departed immediately.

Jessie watched her go and then sighed. She looked around at the warehouse and sighed again. She’d _just_ gotten used to the alterations and now she had to move shop. What a pain in the _ass_.

With a flick of her hand, the desk -- which contained a lot of very important paperwork -- disappeared. Across town, in a protected, warded storage unit in Sparks, it reappeared. She felt it settle in her mind, and then got to the task of dismantling the warehouse, painstakingly.

When Sam Winchester and Castiel pulled up, thirty minutes later, it was empty and looked like it had been deserted for years. There was even trash littering the floor, and real dust. Jessie was sort of proud of those little touches. They _really_ brought the whole thing together.

**\+ + + + +**

Dean walked into the bar like he owned it. _He_ didn’t, some human did, but there were probably a hundred demons here tonight, and he wanted to make an impression.

His little army of ten had grown, but for the most part they were strategists. He needed some tanks, some heavy-hitters. Here, he could find them.

Rogue demons weren’t something that anyone liked to talk about -- in the hunting world, or in Hell. He figured they probably talked about them in Heaven, because angels were exactly the kind of dicks to sit there and bring up the elephant in the room when everyone else was busy trying to ignore it, but everyone _else_ didn’t. Rogue demons didn’t answer to anyone -- they’d escaped the Pit somehow and got to Earth, and did whatever they pleased.

These ones, it seemed, had decided to form a biker gang. He found that hilarious.

“Bro, closed party,” said the bouncer. Human. He looked terrified; of Dean or of the patrons of the bar, Dean had no idea. He didn’t care. 

Dean smiled. “I got an invite,” he said. He pushed past the bouncer with no effort whatsoever and strode into the main thoroughfare.

Almost as one, the demons turned to look at him. He grinned and withdrew the First Blade from the back of his pants.

“Alright, let’s get the introductions over with,” Dean said. “I’m Dean Winchester, Knight of Hell. I aim to be King. You wanna fight? Let’s fight. You wanna retake Hell with me, get some perks in the meantime?” He grinned. “Let’s talk business.”

**\+ + + + +**

Sam was _pissed_. 

That was actually kind of an understatement. The office he’d met Jessie in not even a week ago was derelict and dust-covered, like he’d never been there. Castiel seemed skeptical when Sam claimed that it had looked like a lawyer’s office, that there had been an electric fireplace and a hardwood desk and plush carpeting, but he didn’t outright call him nuts, so Sam counted that, at least, as a win.

He hit 395 North until the I-80 interchange and headed east. Got off on McCarran to top the Impala’s tanks off, because he’d been _so_ pissed off when he got back into the car that he forgot that gas was a thing that you generally needed for cars to function. Filled the tank up at an AM/PM on a new Arco gas card he’d defrauded some bank out of a few weeks ago; used some of the cash Dean and he’d _liberated_ from a couple of drug dealers last month to get some drinks and snacks for the lengthy trip back to Kansas. Put a dollar in one of the slot machines, just to see what happened. Lost the dollar. He snorted -- _Nevada_. He had to go around the block to get back on the road because of an island, and he did so, grumbling the entire time. Castiel, wisely, said nothing, sipping the sweet tea Sam had got him.

It was on the way back to the freeway that he caught sight of her, at the pay phone of the very AM/PM Sam had just been at. It was her -- the woman with purple hair. Jessie Novak, he was convinced. There was a familiar-looking guy standing next to her, and he was the one actually using the phone; his back was to them but Sam could swear he’d seen him before, with ear-length sandy hair and a plain jacket. Jessie, though; _Jessie_ Sam could make out, and it was definitely her, definitely the same woman. She was talking to the guy on the phone, her mouth moving rapidly; a second later, she was looking directly at him, across traffic, and she smiled and winked. 

A car passed between him and the AM/PM, and suddenly the two were gone; the phone receiver was dangling from the pay phone, swinging wildly. 

**\+ + + + +**

Sam and Castiel bunked for the night in Salt Lake City; they’d made record time, blowing through the empty wasteland of the Great Basin in less than eight hours. Sam was pretty sure he’d hit the Impala’s top speed several times; he’d zoned out a lot and come back to realize he was going 100 miles per hour. 

They stopped in Winnemucca and again in Elko to gas up, and in Elko Sam made Castiel take the wheel. Cas looked relieved.

The ex-angel took them through Wendover, stopping to top off the tanks again because there wasn’t anywhere to really fill up along I-80 until Salt Lake City; by the time they got to the place it was nearing midnight, because the detour to Jessie’s former place of business and Sam’s subsequent freakout had ensured that they hadn’t left Reno until well after 4 p.m., and no amount of speeding in the world was going to make the Reno-SLC stretch of 80 take less than _six_ hours, especially since they’d hit night construction in between Elko and Wendover, and had stopped in both places for food.

Sam probably wouldn’t have opted to stop in Salt Lake for the night; Mormons kind of creeped him out for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint, even though these weren’t the FLDS type of Mormons with multiple wives and extreme marital servitude that irked Sam’s feminist hackles. But Castiel spotted the motels as the city rose up before them, dotting the outskirts of town along I-80, and he seemed to have gotten an idea of how Winchesters operate because he swerved into the first shitty one he could find. It was a Super 8 right near the airport; a step above most Winchester accommodations but hey, it was that or a Hampton Inn, and Sam’s cards couldn’t take that kind of heat. 

“Cas -” he began.

“We’re stopping,” Castiel insisted. His hands were gripping the wheel. “I’m tired, and I want to sleep in a bed. I’m hungry, and there’s a vending machine, because we’re in _Utah_ so everything is _closed_ this late. We’re going to have to eat out of that. We’re stopping. _Now_.” He held his hand out. “Give me cash. I’ll get food. You get a room.”

Sam acquiesced; he hadn’t heard Castiel sound that defeated since they’d left him in a room surrounded by holy fire. By the time he’d procured a room under a false ID with a matching false credit card, Cas had somehow managed to empty about half of the vending machine and had about a 12-pack’s worth of assorted sodas. 

“What a glamorous life we lead,” Sam said, huffing, as he pulled the car in front of room 20. They unloaded quickly; since the decision to rest had been made, the urge to get inside and clean and asleep as quickly as possible seemed to be the common goal. 

Cas snorted. “If we’d taken the time to gamble in Reno I could have won us some money. I’ve been told I’m quite good at poker.”

“What?” Sam said, taken aback. Castiel shrugged.

“When I worked at the Gas-n-Sip in Idaho, there was a weekly illicit poker game. I was invited, presumably because I didn’t know the game. I got very good, very fast.” He shouldered his way into the room, carrying his duffel and their edibles for the night. Sam followed, carrying his duffel and the one that was full of hunting equipment.

While Cas laid out a spread that consisted mostly of chips, sodas, and candy bars, Sam prepped the room, lining the windows and door floorplate with a mix he’d come up with over the years; it was equal parts salt, iron filings, borax powder, and baking soda to keep everything from clumping. The plus of this was that borax powder and baking soda was an effective cleaner, so it wiped clean the next morning, and Sam could even reuse the stuff.

Castiel went to ward the walls with his blood and Sam stopped him, rolling his eyes. “Markers do just as well, Cas,” he said, handing the ex-angel a clear marker of the type one used on invisible ink. Castiel peered at it. “It’s invisible,” he said, helpfully. “So we don’t have to scrub the walls tomorrow morning.”

“Huh,” Cas said. Then: “I never thought of that.”

“Yeah, well, Dean’s kind of an asshole about leaving rooms decent,” Sam said, wincing because that sent a twinge through him. “But _I’m_ not. Use the clear marker.”

Cas got to work, pulling out all of the stops with his warding. Sam took the opportunity to take a quick shower.

As he was leaving the bathroom, Cas was finishing; the other man had stripped off his shirt at some point, sweating from his exertions, and his new tattoo gleamed under the liquid. 

“Hey,” Sam said, pointing to it. “You taking care of that?”

“What?” Cas said. He put the marker in the hunting bag, next to Sam’s protective salt mix, and refocused his attention toward Sam.

“Your tattoo,” the hunter repeated, gesturing again. “Are you taking care of it?”

“I put ointment on it when it’s dry,” Castiel said, shrugging. He just barely remembered not to scratch at it. “It itches when it’s dry.”

“That’s good, means it’s healing,” Sam said. He’d been dealing with some of that as well, because he’d repaired his own sigil when he’d done everyone else’s, tracing over the lines that Dean had split to allow Crowley in to expel Gadreel. Sam healed fast; no idea whether or not Castiel had the sort of constitution that would allow fast healing. The ink looked good, though.

“Go get a shower,” Sam said. He turned Cas by the shoulders and nudged him toward the bathroom. “You stink. We can eat after.”

Cas went obligingly enough. Sam started getting ready for an easy departure in the morning, setting out clothing and re-packing his toiletries. Then he sat at the table and waited.

When Cas got out of the room, twenty minutes later, spreading ointment over his tattoo, Sam was just popping the tab on a Sprite. Cas sat next to him and they devoured the shitty vending machine food.

“Ugh,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. He disposed of their chip bags and candy bar wrappers and cans in the tiny room garbage cans. “This is why I never stop in Salt Lake if I can help it. Real food is hard to come by late at night.”

Cas nodded, sleepily, and stumbled toward his bed. He passed out almost immediately, clad in a pair of Dean’s old pajama bottoms and nothing else. Sam sighed and went through the motions he had for himself, pulling a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, clean socks, and underwear out of Cas’s duffel and setting the whole mess on the now-clear table for him to change into in the morning.

Then he did a sweep of the bathroom, gathering up Castiel’s toiletries and dirty clothes; like his own dirty clothes, he shoved Dean’s old things that Cas had been wearing into a plastic bag (probably intended for garbage) and put it back into the angel’s duffel.

He _really_ needed to take the man shopping for his own clothes. Dean’s stuff didn’t fit him well, and although he didn’t complain, Sam’d caught Cas tightening the belt several notches and shifting his shoulders around, trying to get the shirts to settle in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable. At least the jeans were about the right length; Cas was only an inch or two shorter than Dean.

Shaking his head, Sam cleared the room, plugged his and Cas’s phones in to charge and set a wakeup alarm on his, and then allowed himself to sink into bed. He was more tired than he thought -- he fell asleep within minutes.

**\+ + + + +**

They were both woken up well before check-out the next morning by Sam’s phone going off. It wasn’t his alarm ringtone and Sam felt himself sit up immediately, alert, as he pulled his phone toward him.

Across the room, Castiel, who’d burrito’d himself in his blanket to the point that Sam could only see his face, glared at Sam and rolled over, clearly intending on going back to sleep.

Sam snorted and glanced down. “Whoa,” he said. He immediately hit, “answer,” and practically shoved the phone into his ear. “ _Charlie_?”

“Hey Sam!” Charlie said.

“I thought you were in _Oz_ ,” Sam said.

“Yeahhhh,” Charlie said. He could practically see her wincing. “Did that. Won the battle. Had a suuuper-bad breakup. Home again. Look, can you get to Sterling, Colorado? I’ve... got sort of a case. Sort of. It’s... a long story. Also I need a ride?” 

Sterling was a tiny-ass town in northern Colorado; Sam had been before. It was on his way home, only a slight detour, and if they didn’t hit serious traffic he could get there in about eight hours. 

He glanced at the clock; it was 9 a.m. He glanced at Castiel, who was resolutely refusing to get out of his bed, although Sam was pretty sure that not only was he fully awake, but that he’d just heard the entire conversation.

“Give me twelve hours, max,” Sam said. “We’re in Salt Lake.”

“Oh _good_ ,” Charlie said. There was a pause and then, “Why didn’t Dean answer his phone?”

Sam sighed and ran his hand down his face. “That... is also a long story. I’ll tell you later.”

“Right,” and Charlie sounded unsure now. “Anyway, see you in twelve. Try to make it sooner? It’s kind of a _situation_.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Sam said. He yawned. “See you in a few, Charlie.”

They hung up and Sam began the process of forcing Castiel out of his perfectly good bed.

**\+ + + + +**

In a delightful change of pace, the sun hadn’t even set by the time they pulled into Sterling, nine hours later. Sam broke a few speeding laws on the way there; Cas, upon hearing that Charlie (who he’d never met but who was a part of the extended Winchester family and apparently received his protection, angelic or not) needed help, had hopped out of bed and immediately started disrobing. 

Sam reminded him to put deodorant on and quickly escaped with his bundle of clothing to the bathroom. Dean used to do that, get undressed and then re-dressed in front of him, because they’d lived together for their entire lives and also because he thought it was hilarious how uncomfortable it made Sam, but Cas didn’t know any better. Well, he probably did but didn’t care because it wasn’t really his body.

Or was it? Sam didn’t know. 

They checked out and got back on to I-80 just as rush hour was ending.

Charlie, who apparently had no money to her name and who’d left all of her fake ID’s in the bunker, had broken into a room at the Travelodge at the outskirts of Sterling. Sam picked her up there; she was wearing odd clothes and looked grateful to see a familiar face. 

“Where’d you get the phone?” Sam asked.

“I had _that_ with me when I went to Oz,” Charlie said, slipping into the backseat. “Fat lot of good it did me, but hey. Can we hit somewhere with clothes that don’t scream ‘historical reenactment’? I’ll pay you back.”

Sam laughed, introduced her to Castiel, (“Oh wow,” she said, eyes huge. “ _The_ Castiel.” Cas just looked confused,) and drove to the Wal-Mart on the other end of town.

That task taken care of, and food acquired, the three of them sat in the Impala, eating and getting briefed on the case Charlie had stumbled upon.

“There’s a group of angels,” she said. Cas froze. “I practically fell into them when I got back from Oz two days ago. They’re camped out in the middle of a bunch of sagebrush outside of town. They keep talking about ascending and how they want to stay on Earth.”

Cas turned to regard her. “They’re refusing to Ascend? How many of them?”

“Six, from what I could tell,” Charlie said, around a mouthful of McDonalds. She chewed a few seconds and then swallowed. “Didn’t get any names, sorry. As far as I could tell, they didn’t see me.”

“If they still have their grace, they knew you were there,” Cas informed her. He turned back toward the front and resolutely refused to say anything else for the duration of the conversation.

**\+ + + + +**

They were driving to where Charlie’d seen the angels, and Charlie kept calling them _hers_ so she could make Charlie’s Angels jokes (Castiel seemed to understand the jokes, and even laughed at one, which delighted the hacker), when Sam asked Cas.

“What’s our plan of attack?” Sam said.

“Attack?” Cas asked, turning toward him with wide eyes.

“Well, not _attack_ ,” Sam clarified. “I don’t want to kill anyone if we can help it. But what should we _do_?”

“Convince them to Ascend or Fall as the case may be,” Cas said. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I don’t think it’s gonna be that easy,” Charlie said.

“I didn’t say it was going to be _easy_ ,” Cas replied. “Just that that’s what we have to do. Many, possibly _all_ , of them will recognize me. Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen.” And then he clamped his lips shut again.

They pulled up to the bit of roadway that was closest to the angels’ camp, geared up, and hiked the remaining half mile in. To Sam’s great surprise, they were still there; Castiel didn’t seem surprised at all.

“We know you are there,” one of them called out, startling all three of them. “Come out where we can see you.”

Sam glanced at Cas, who nodded, slowly. Charlie gulped but stood, taking point.

“You were here several nights ago,” the one who’d spoken said. Their vessel was a black woman, mid to late 30’s, in a distinguished skirtsuit, scuffed heels included, and Sam was briefly impressed with the angel’s ability to walk in this rough territory in _heels_. Charlie nodded. 

“I was,” she said. Her voice was even, and Sam wondered what she’d been through in Oz to give her that kind of calm. 

The angels peered behind her and they all tensed and went into a battle stance; their swords fell into their hands, and it took the three hunters everything they had to not reach for the blades they had tucked into their belts.

“We’re not here to fight,” Sam began.

“You’ve brought that _traitor_ to us,” one of the others spat out. Their vessel was tall and white, and of indeterminate sex. They were dressed in punk attire.

“Which one?” Sam shot back. “Sam Winchester or Castiel? I guess you’d consider both of us traitors at one point or another. Which are you going to take first? Me? Him? I mean, we’ve both been brought back to life by God before, so maybe it won’t take this time, maybe it will. Do you want to chance it?”

The six of them wavered, gripping their swords a little looser and mumbling among themselves.

“We just want to talk,” Charlie said, quietly. “We can do that from over here if it makes you more comfortable.”

They mumbled some more before the leader, who seemed to be the woman in the skirtsuit, nodded. “You may come sit with us and talk,” she said. “We will not attack you, but we will not disarm ourselves.”

“Smart,” Sam said, nodding. He couldn’t help but recognize that Cas hadn’t said anything this entire time.

The three of them approached, wary, and sat in a loose semicircle around the fire the angels had erected. The six angels arranged themselves on the opposite side of the fire and regarded them curiously.

“So, you guys know Sam and Cas,” Charlie said. “I’m Charlie.”

“We know,” said business-suit woman. She paused and then continued. “Oh. You want introductions.”

“It would be nice to know who we’re talking to,” Sam said.

“I am Ambriel,” she said. She pointed to each angel in turn. “Marut,” the punk; “Nakir,” a Latino man in a business suit; “Suriel,” a white man in hobo attire; “Pahaliah,” a bald south Asian man wearing a button-down shirt and ripped jeans; “Zion,” and this was a young black boy, probably no more than ten or eleven years old. Maybe younger.

“Fourth Garrison, Michael’s company,” Castiel said, speaking for the first time. “Where are Ariel and Penemue?”

“They chose to Ascend,” Ambriel said, uncomfortably.

“It is good that you chose to stay with each other on Earth,” Castiel said. 

“What?” Charlie said.

“In Heaven,” Zion said, and it was eerie hearing a preteen speak with the deep, thoughtful tones of an angel. “We are all family. Sisters, brothers, siblings. But those of your garrison are closer. They are the closest we have to true family. We love all of our family, especially our Father, but we love our garrison because we are with them constantly. It is the love of familiarity, of true family.”

They were all quiet for a minute; Sam recalled that almost all of Castiel’s garrison had been slaughtered by Uriel, who he then had to kill; all that was left was Balthazar, who Castiel flat-out murdered. 

“How many angels to a garrison?” Charlie asked, curious. 

“It depends on the garrison’s function,” Castiel said. “My garrison had eleven; when Anna Fell we were ten. She was never replaced. We were elite soldiers; that was our function. Fourth Garrison were ...intelligence, for lack of a better word. They were fifteen.”

“We are now ten,” Nakir said.

Charlie’s eyes went wide; Sam had a sinking feeling.

Marut spoke next. “Heman, Bath Kol, and Iaoel chose to Fall. We were stationed on Earth, gathering intelligence about the Seals, and they fell in love with humanity.”

“Marmaroth and Samuel perished in the Fall,” Suriel said, gravely. Sam started; Cas side-eyed him, corner of his lips quirking upward. Then he sighed and turned back to the angels.

“Why do you refuse to Ascend?” he asked. Direct, as usual.

“We like it here,” Pahaliah said. He shrugged. “Earth is nice. We learned to love it like our Father did during the Apocalypse that wasn’t; the Fall was painful, and deadly to some, but now that we are here we would like to stay.”

Cas was quiet for a long while; the angels seemed content to stare up at the heavens, smiling to themselves, and Charlie’s questions seemed to have been answered for the night. Sam was uncomfortable with the whole situation.

“The Fall was the machination of Metatron, although I inadvertently caused it,” Castiel said, sighing. “I grieve for Marmaroth and Samuel, and Ezekiel, and all of our brothers and sisters I... killed.”

“We heard the announcement,” Marut said, mutinous. “The spell used your grace, did it not? That is punishment enough, to be human.”

“It’s not a punishment,” Cas said, taken aback. “Certainly, I am less powerful than I was, but being human is not a punishment.” He sighed. “That Metatron took my grace from me was unfortunate, but I do not regret being human. It is a privilege.”

There was an intake of breath among the angels.

“He _took_ it? It was not willingly given?” Marut asked, voice quivering.

Cas shook his head. “I would never participate in such a ritual willingly. If any spark of my grace is left, Metatron knows where it is, not I.”

The angels were mumbling amongst themselves; Sam got the feeling they were horrified, and he decided that telling them Cas himself had stolen grace from another angel was probably not a tactful thing to do at the moment.

“He will stand trial,” Ambriel said. “He will stand trial and he will be punished for this - this _violation_!”

Charlie stared at Cas.

Cas shrugged. “The Host knows nothing of the spell, only that it was performed.” That, Sam recalled, might be something of a lie; Hannah, at least, knew that he was using borrowed grace, as did several of the angels that Metatron told. They must have made the connection. Right?

“I will not stand for this,” Suriel said. His voice was booming, louder than a human voice should, and Sam realized the angels were losing control of their true forms in their agitation over Castiel’s stolen grace.

“Calm yourselves,” Cas said, sharply, holding his hands out. The angels stilled. “We three are human. Your true forms will injure us.”

They took a moment to collect themselves and to discuss in whispers the knowledge they had just acquired. 

Suriel spoke again. “I will Ascend. I will not let this miscarriage of justice happen. The Host must know.”

“I don’t want to Ascend,” Marut said. “I like it here.”

“I do too,” Ambriel said, sounding torn. “I don’t want to leave.”

Castiel looked at the remaining three angels. 

Pahaliah and Nakir looked uncomfortable. “We wish to stay, but this injustice must be brought to light. The more of us, the better,” Pahaliah said. 

Zion was quiet. “I wish to stay,” he said. “And I know that you are going to request that I Fall, because that is the way of things. I even understand it. To be reborn as a human would be the right way to do things. That’s how it’s supposed to work.” He looked at Ambriel and Marut as he said this. They both looked down, shamefaced. “But my host perished before I took him. He was dying of a genetic disorder, and I received his permission as he left his body. I healed this vessel. There is no one in it but me now. Can I not keep it?”

Castiel stared at him. “You asked permission of a dying vessel?”

Zion stared right back. “Why would I not? You, of all angels, Castiel, know how much our Father loves humans. How could I not respect that? He was a bright soul, a clever soul, and his mother had named him after me. I was drawn to him. For the brief moment I knew him, I loved him. I couldn’t have taken this body without his permission. It would not have been acceptable.”

“You would request that we Fall?” Ambriel said. “If we wish to stay?”

“I would request that you let your vessels live their lives,” Castiel said, gently. “That you be born into your own vessels to live out your lives. That you leave your power to Heaven until you are reborn there. The might of Heaven was never meant to wander Earth.” He sighed. “It took me too long to understand that.”

“I’ll do it,” Marut said, suddenly, surprising everyone in the clearing. Sam blinked. “My vessel. I like them. I don’t want them to miss out on life because they’re hosting me.”

Castiel smiled. “What is their name?”

Marut smiled back. “They have many. Their parents called them Annabel. They prefer Jordan. They have just started their life, and they said yes to me and I told them that their gender mattered not to our Father. It eased their pain and I would let them go back to life, pain-free and knowing that they have a place in Heaven.”

Ambriel was quiet for many moments before nodding as well. “I will do it as well.”

Zion spoke up again. “Is it possible?” he said. “To Fall into an empty vessel?”

“Yes,” Sam said. They looked at him and he shook his head. “Don’t ask me how I know. I’ve seen it, just... leave it at that.”

The three of them stood up. “We should perhaps relocate,” Suriel said, mildly. “It is about to get very noisy here.”

Charlie made a squeaking sound and shot up from the ground. 

By common agreement, the three hunters and rogue angels headed toward the Impala - the three falling angels agreeing to wait fifteen minutes for them to evacuate.

Even a half mile away, they heard the blast; the Impala jumped off the ground slightly, although Sam was glad that her windows didn’t shatter. Charlie developed a nosebleed and ringing ears.

“You aren’t a vessel,” Cas said, helping stem the flow of blood from her nose with a napkin from the glove compartment. “It would affect you worse than Sam or I.”

After a few minutes of cleaning Charlie up, they trooped back to the campsite. There, the grace of three angels had created an oasis in the desert; a pool of water, clear and fresh, with trees and flowers lining it. Carefully, Sam helped Castiel collect the grace of the three fallen angels, into stoppered vials, to be somehow sent to Heaven to await their re-arrival.

Zion woke up before the others, shaking his head and wincing. “I don’t like this kind of pain. It’s very physical.”

“Indeed,” Cas said, frowning in commiseration as he helped the newly-human boy up from the ground. 

Jordan woke next, jumping up from an almost-sound sleep and looking panicked. Charlie took this one.

“Hey, hey,” she said, coming to their side. “It’s okay. Marut Fell. You’re on your own now. We’re in Colorado. I’m Charlie. She/her pronouns. We cool?”

This seemed to relax Jordan, and they would have spoken if Ambriel’s vessel hadn’t just groaned her way into consciousness.

She was still really incoherent when Pahaliah asked the question.

“How do we get back to Heaven?” 

Sam, Cas, and Charlie were quiet for a while before Cas had his idea.

“I only know of one angel that still has her wings,” he said, and Sam wanted to negate the idea but before he could, Cas had placed his hands together and wholeheartedly began to pray.

“Anabiel,” he said, and then, “Anna. I have a group of angels who would like to Ascend. If you could be so accommodating.”

It was quiet for a minute, and Sam wondered if Anna was ignoring them deliberately. Then, a whoosh of wings, which all three angels gasped at, and Anna was there.

All three of them flung themselves at her feet, which seemed to amuse her. It confused the hell out of Sam. Castiel just stood to the side, patiently, with Charlie.

“You wish to Ascend?” Anna asked. They nodded, still at her feet. Then her focus was torn toward Zion.

“You Fell into your vessel?” she asked. He nodded.

“It was empty,” he said, sadly. “And he is young. I’d rather avoid the awkward infant years anyway.”

Charlie snorted.

“Where would you be?” she asked. He thought about it for a minute and then spoke.

“His mother is suffering,” he said. “I only took him a week ago. Could I not go and be with her? I am not her son, but I am _a_ son, and her faith is strong.”

“You would have me erase her memory?” Anna replied, startled. He nodded.

“She is a kind woman. My vessel was born with disabilities and she loved him without restraint. A son healing himself and living to an old age would be reward enough for her.”

“Give me the name,” Charlie said, digging around for her phone. “I’ll take care of the death certificate and everything.” Zion did, even reciting social security numbers and home address. His vessel had lived right here in Colorado, a few hours south of Sterling. 

Castiel proffered the vials of grace, which Anna took solemnly. She promised to store them somewhere safe before turning back to Zion.

“I’ll have to erase the memories of everyone who knows about the death,” Anna said. “Are you sure?”

Zion looked torn, but then he nodded. “Zion has taken my place in the heavens; I will take his here on Earth.”

With a flash, the three angels and Zion were gone, as was Anna. 

“Man, what is it with angels?” Charlie asked. “You guys get together and it’s like a convention in middle-English.”

“Enochian is archaic, Old Enochian even more so,” Castiel said. “Both the first garrison, which I belonged to, and the fourth garrison, who we just spoke with, were early groups of angels. We’re used to the cadence of Old Enochian; Modern Enochian is a more recent invention, perhaps a billion years old at most. The speech patterns carry over, I guess.”

“A billion years is _modern_ ,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes heavenward.

Castiel smiled. “My garrison was created before the universe sprung into being. Around 14 billion years ago. In the face of that, a billion years seems relatively recent.”

Charlie, Jordan, and Ambriel’s vessel -- her name was Makayla -- both stared at Cas in awe. Sam, who’d heard this story, just started back toward the Impala.

**\+ + + + +**

Makayla was a single businesswoman from Chicago. She’d just taken a year-long sabbatical from her position when she met Ambriel and consented to be her vessel, and the sabbatical was almost over, so she was desperate to get back to Chicago. 

“Any family you need to call?” Sam asked, offering his phone. Charlie and Cas were putting the angel swords into the armory under the trunk while Sam dealt with the humans.

She shook her head. “That was what the sabbatical was supposed to be for. Travel the world, maybe meet someone. My parents are dead, and I was an only child.”

“Friends?” he asked. She shook her head.

“I’d left town before... Ambriel. They wouldn’t have been expecting to hear from me. I’m fine.”

He turned to Jordan and raised his eyebrows; Jordan’s shoulders fell.

“I’m from South Carolina,” they said. “Coming out as genderqueer and bisexual didn’t exactly endear me to my parents; they threw me out as soon as I turned 18.” They pulled their wallet out. “I’ve got my ID, my birth certificate, and my social security card, and that’s... it. That’s what they let me leave with.” They sighed. “Chicago’s as good a place as any. I might be able to score a job.”

Makayla’s eyes went misty. She didn’t say anything, but Sam was pretty sure that by the time they got them home, Jordan would have a place to live.

**\+ + + + +**

_Monument, Colorado_

It was suffocating; it was burning; it was terrible. His eyes shot open and he clawed at his throat; he was _dying_.

No. There was a way out; he’d seen the movies. He could do this.

Finally, he clawed his way out of where he’d been and gasped at the air, disoriented. To his left, he heard screaming; old instincts kicked in and he sought it out.

Only when he’d pulled her out of her own prison did he bother to look around. They were in a graveyard; they’d been in _graves_.

They’d been dead, and now they weren’t.

He had a call to make.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam paid for two adjoining rooms at the Travelodge that night. Jordan and Charlie crashed in one room on double beds; Castiel offered to sleep on the roll-out couch and Makayla gratefully took him up on the offer. 

Sam, who wouldn’t have fit on the couch and was wondering how Cas would manage it, took the last double bed. 

The next morning, they woke up early, caught breakfast at a local restaurant, and hit the 76, following it to I-80 and heading east. Sam took a leisurely pace -- while Charlie, Jordan, and Makayla were all in the back seat, it wasn’t exactly a _squeeze_ ; both Charlie and Jordan were tiny in frame, and the Impala was huge.

The intervening hours were spent talking; about what Sam and Cas did (and a crash course from Charlie, who wrote down the link to her online bestiary and hunter guide for both of them to protect themselves with), about how Cas came to be a fallen angel (they neatly skirted questions about Sam’s brother Dean, just saying he was sick and not with them; Charlie clearly didn’t believe this explanation), about how Charlie’d gotten mixed in with it all, and about Makayla and Jordan.

Makayla was the C.F.O. of a huge music electronics corporation based out of Chicago; she’d gone to school to be a sound engineer with a minor in business and had worked her way up from intern. She was career-driven, from what Sam could see, but desperately wanted someone to share her life with: a child, a partner, even a close friend. She hated the other people in her social sphere, most of whom were white cisgender straight men who had no idea how hard she’d had to work to get to where she was.

She also donated ten percent of her considerable income to a Chicago homeless shelter for LGBTQ youth. This came up while Jordan was talking about their life -- a conservative and very, very poor neighborhood in South Carolina. They’d gotten good grades but their parents wanted them to do something sensible with their life -- be a teacher, maybe. Something that wouldn’t interfere with raising a family. That they didn’t want to have kids or be referred to as “she” didn’t factor into their parents’ plans for them. Child abandonment was still a crime, however, and so their parents waited until midnight of their 18th birthday to kick them to the curb. They’d been staying at a friend’s house, had barely managed to finish school, and then they’d met Marut.

Charlie told everyone the story of her parents, and then a wild and crazy story that Jordan and Makayla seemed to only barely believe, one of going to Oz, falling in love with Dorothy, fighting a war for Oz, breaking up with Dorothy. It did seem pretty fantastical, but since Sam had been around for the first part of it, he _had_ to vouch for her. 

“Oh, by the way,” Sam cautioned both of them. “Apparently Chicago is run by like five families of djinni, ghouls, werewolves, shapeshifters, and vampires. So you know. Be careful.” Which meant he had to tell _that_ particular story and how ridiculous it was, the whole thing, and he had the entire car rolling on the floor with laughter -- even Cas -- over how melodramatic the supernatural creatures he and Dean encountered had been.

Around 11 p.m. they pulled up in front of a luxury apartment building in the rich part of Chicago. It was Makayla’s complex, and it was lush, with a doorman and (from what Sam could see) a rich entryway. Sam didn’t know what Makayla made, but it had to be quite a bit.

She got out of the car and then looked expectantly at Jordan. “You coming?” she asked.

Jordan startled. “What?” They asked. 

She held out her hand. “I’ve got a spare room, and as far as I can tell we’re vessel-buddies. I like the homeless shelter I donate to, they’re _great_ , but I’d rest easier if I knew you were somewhere _safe_.”

Jordan looked like they might cry; instead, they placed their hand in Makayla’s and let her draw them out of the car.

Sam passed Makayla a piece of paper with his and Charlie’s numbers written on it. “You get into any wonky trouble, you call me. Alright? We’re in Kansas, it’s a ten hour drive, but we’ll be here if you need us.”

Makayla nodded and led her charge into her building. The doorman apparently recognized her and welcomed her back from her vacation. 

“Man,” Charlie said, sighing and resting her arms along the inside of the car. She set her chin on them. “I wish _I’d_ had an awesome rich vessel-buddy to help me when I came out and got kicked out of my foster home.”

“Charlie, you _are_ rich,” Sam pointed out. She grinned and winked. 

“I know,” she replied. 

**\+ + + + +**

Sam stopped in Davenport. The Impala needed a tune-up and an oil change, and while he _knew_ how to do it, he’d rather just pay someone, so they got a room and slept. 

The mechanic had just handed the keys back over to him the next morning when he heard a phone going off. Since the mechanic didn’t immediately reach for her pocket, Sam assumed it was his. But that wasn’t his ringer. It was Dean’s --

He dove for the trunk, unlatching it and reaching for the box of burner phones Dean kept around and that Sam kept charged. An unfamiliar number was calling one of the older ones, from back before Dean went to Hell. He flipped it open.

“Hello?” he gasped. 

“Dean?” a voice asked. Sam’s blood ran cold.

“No, this is Sam,” he said. He gulped. “Sam Winchester.”

“At least it’s a Winchester,” he said. He paused. “Remember me?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, slowly. “Yeah, I do.”

**\+ + + + +**

Neither Cas nor Charlie was happy when Sam dropped them at the bunker with the last key and, with a brief stop to swap his dirty clothes for fresh and restock, left them there. It’d been ten hours of driving, but he hauled ass to Monument, Colorado -- a place he hadn’t been to in about seven years. He’d avoided it purposely, to be honest. The place left a sick taste at the back of his mouth.

He rolled up to the cemetery late at night and there they were, the two of them, still in their dirt-stained clothes. He wondered if they’d waited at the cemetery all night or if they’d gone somewhere else to avoid suspicion.

It didn’t matter. They were walking up to him.

“The same car, I see,” Victor Henrickson said. He turned; next to him was Nancy Fitzgerald, still wearing her cross. 

“Yeah,” Sam said, mouth dry. Then: “I need to run some tests.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” Victor said, standing back. He held up his hand. “To start with, _not_ a zombie hell-bent on revenge this time.”

Sam swallowed, the reminder of Victor’s words during the whole Witness thing a hard pill to swallow. Nancy, confused, held her hand out too. Neither of them had the mark of the Witness. Sam figured the spell Bobby’d done back then had cleansed Victor’s soul of the mark Lillith had left on it.

He got out of the car and got everything he needed -- iron, silver, holy water, borax. Nancy smiled at him as he came back around.

“Long time, no see,” she whispered.


	7. Episode Six - Are You Ready for a Fight?

** Episode Six - Are You Ready for a Fight? **

_There’s danger out tonight_

_The man is on the prowl_

_Get the dynamite_

_The boys are set to prowl_

_Lonely is the night_

_When you hear the voices call_

_Are you ready for a fight?_

_Do you want to take it all?_

_Slowdown, showdown, waitin’ online_

_Showtime, no time for changin’ your mind_

_Streets are ringing, march to the sound_

_Let your secrets follow you down_

\--Billy Squier, “Lonely Is the Night”

_“The same car, I see,” Victor Henrickson said. He turned; next to him was Nancy Fitzgerald, still wearing her cross._

_“Yeah,” Sam said, mouth dry. Then: “I need to run some tests.”_

_“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” Victor said, standing back. He held up his hand. “To start with, **not** a zombie hell-bent on revenge this time.”_

_Sam swallowed, the reminder of Victor’s words during the whole Witness thing a hard pill to swallow. Nancy, confused, held her hand out too. Neither of them had the mark of the Witness. Sam figured the spell Bobby’d done back then had cleansed Victor’s soul of the mark Lillith had left on it._

_He got out of the car and got everything he needed -- iron, silver, holy water, borax. Nancy smiled at him as he came back around._

_“Long time, no see,” she whispered._

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie didn’t often take stage work anymore. Actually, she never had in _this_ life, although she’d done stage work _before_ so she was qualified, if nothing else. But she had good reasons for taking work at the GSR, so when they’d called, she hopped to -- after making all the right inquiries through town, of course. 

Hopefully the demons had caught her scent. She knew what was up -- that Crowley had sent them to set up another one of his soul-catching club schemes. 

He should know better. Not in _her_ town.

She slung her purse to her shoulder as she walked out of the back dock doors toward her car. The day’s work _should_ have been exhausting but even though she needed sleep like a _normal_ human, she had an incredible reserve of stamina most of them didn’t possess. She felt _alive_ \-- it was the beginning of June, which was the best time in northern Nevada. The nights, especially. Around midnight was perfect -- a cool relief from the heat of the day, but not cold enough to make you shiver. There was a hint of a breeze, but no gusts to blow you over.

Nights like this, you almost felt connected to the very earth.

She heard her assumed name called out; one of her coworkers saying goodnight. She slowed and waved back, smiling, waiting for him to pass her. She could feel them, the demons, surrounding her, and she wanted to make sure that no one innocent got caught in the crossfire.

She waited, even having a smoke in the smoking area, until everyone had left, the back doors had been closed, and it was dark. Then she stepped out and beelined toward her car.

She knew the moment she was surrounded, and she smiled.

Someone in grounds maintenance had left a four-foot length of rebar sitting on a stack of pallets; it wasn’t a staff, like she was used to, but it’d do. She reached for it, smoothly, grasping it at the center and sending a wave of golden light through the entire bar.

Then she spun in place. There, in a semicircle, were Crowley’s minions. 

“Demons,” she greeted. Pleasantly, she thought, considering the circumstances. She did a quick count -- eleven of them, eight in empty meatsuits. 

“Hunter,” the lead demon replied. He almost _hissed_ it which -- how cliche could you _get_?

“We gonna do this?” she asked, eyeing them. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

“You interfere in the King of Hell’s business, you don’t get _fair_.”

She laughed and dropped her purse at her side. “I didn’t mean fair to _me_ ,” she said, and spun into action.

She got an immediate reaction from all of the demons; they lunged at her, some with weapons. Two of them had angel blades, which theoretically could kill _any_ being short of an archangel, including a human -- after all, stabbing had the same effect on a human body regardless of whether the thing doing the stabbing was a holy relic or not.

One, in a girl meatsuit, teenage, with long acrylic nails sharpened to a stiletto point, lashed out at her with her hands. Jessie dodged them and spun around, bringing the rebar around to whack the demon upside the head. She hissed and lunged away, the back of her head smoking.

This caused a slight pause in the action, and Jessie spun the rebar around expertly. “Well, come on. _You_ guys are the ones who wanted a fight.”

One of the ones with an angel blade decided this was his opportunity, and he ran toward her at full speed, jumping at the last second to get a height advantage and plunging the blade into her breast. She could feel it nick her heart and she stumbled a little bit, but then she laughed, shoved the demon off of her, and (angel blade still embedded in her flesh) put all of her weight into shoving the rebar into the demon’s stomach.

He flashed with a sickly yellow light and died.

The demons went _insane_.

After that it became a blur of sorts; she spun, dodged, kicked, and lashed out with all of the physical power she had available to her. She exorcised the three demons that still had living hosts, and _eradicated_ the others. Then she pulled the angel blade from her chest, wincing slightly, and healed the damage. It wouldn’t do to bleed all over the scene, after all.

Barely a thought, and the blade was clean of both her fingerprints and blood, as was the rebar. She dropped both, picked up her purse, and began walking toward her car again.

It was unlocked, which annoyed her -- the demons had been snooping. She quickly assessed that they hadn’t stolen anything and then threw her purse into the passenger seat, started the car, and pulled out of the loading dock area.

She got onto 395 and hit the I-80 interchange, heading east. Once she was safely past Lockwood, she pulled out her phone and called her assistant, putting her on speaker.

“Bela,” she said.

“Jessie,” Bela replied. There were sounds of a club of some sort in the background. She must be enjoying her 50%, having just got back into Reno that morning.

“I have to get out of town for a while,” Jessie said. “If something happens, head to the new office in south Reno. It’s under a different name, so you’ll be safe there. Hide out for a while.” She considered for a second and then added, “And switch the money from the main account to the secondary one, the one that’s not in my name either.”

“Who’d you piss off this time?” Bela said. She sounded amused.

“If I did my job right?” Jessie replied, smirking. She shifted into fifth gear. “The Reno Police Department, Sam Winchester, and the King of Hell.”

“Crowley?” Bela sounded delighted. “Well, _well_. I suppose I’ll hear from you when you need me?”

“Absolutely. Until then, enjoy your fifty percent. And keep off of Crowley’s radar; as far as he’s concerned, you’re still rotting in the pit. Let’s keep it that way, hm?”

“No arguments from me, boss,” Bela said. Without any goodbyes, she hung up, most likely to secure her path back to the office.

Jessie smiled for a second, and then let the expression drop from her face. She knew that if Bela were with her she’d call it her _smiting face_ , but she had serious things to consider. 

She gunned it down I-80. She needed to be in Nebraska by tomorrow night. 

**\+ + + + +**

The Grand Sierra Resort didn’t exactly have a state-of-the-art security system, but it _did_ monitor the back loading dock pretty extensively. This was done with unobtrusive cameras which caught the majority of the pad from various angles; they weren’t the best cameras, but they could catch some sound and decent quality video. 

There was an area, near the smoking area, where the on-call stage employees sometimes parked. They weren’t _supposed_ to, but they did anyway. There was only one camera that focused on that area; theft from employee cars, illegally parked, wasn’t exactly their highest priority in regards to the loading dock.

Right now, the view showed what looked like eleven dead bodies (only eight of them were actually dead; the other three were unconscious). The security guard was on his break, but when he got back in five minutes he was going to _freak out_.

The little red light on the front of the camera blinked. And blinked. And blinked.

**\+ + + + +**

The early-morning sunlight nearly blinded Sam; he was driving due east, heading back toward the bunker, and he was still half-asleep. They’d woken up and hastily taken off, as the two disturbed graves and “stolen bodies” had been discovered by the police shortly after Sam had picked up Nancy and Victor. 

Their stories were near-identical; they’d woken up in their graves, alive and well and freaking out. Victor escaped his grave, heard (felt? Victor couldn’t really recall) Nancy screaming in hers, and pulled her out as quickly as possible.

Victor’d managed to memorize the phone number Dean gave him when they left Monument -- holdover from his years in the FBI, quickly memorizing information -- and he’d found as much change as he could by knocking a vending machine around and used a pay phone to call it. Rising from the grave? _Had_ to be a Winchester thing.

Sam got them clean clothes and food and rented a cheap-as-fuck room in the back of nowhere so they could shower and all of them could get some rest, but as soon as they could they got the _fuck_ out of Monument.

He hadn’t yet broken the news that it’d been seven years since they died. Both of them had recognized that a lot of time must have passed, because Sam’s phone was way more advanced than it should have been, and Sam himself had changed a _lot_. But neither of them could bring themselves to ask, and Sam didn’t offer the information.

They were both passed out; Victor in the passenger seat, Nancy sprawled over the back one. Sam had a rare energy drink that he was chugging to try and wake the hell up, but they hadn’t even stopped for food. The graves being desecrated had made Monument news, and the town hadn’t forgotten the demon infestation seven years previous. It had them spooked. 

Burlington, Colorado was roughly halfway between Monument and Lebanon, about two hours in, and at about 9 a.m. both Nancy and Victor started to stir back awake. Sam had gone through his second energy drink and was in desperate need of food and more caffeine and maybe a week’s good hard sleep, but he’d settle for food and coffee.

He pulled off of 70 at the 385 interchange and headed north. He’d been this route before and knew there were food options nearby. He passed a Denny’s, considered it, and shook his head. No, he needed strong coffee, the kind of shitty coffee you only got at fast food places. There was a Burger King up ahead, and damn if a Croissan’wich didn’t sound amazing right now. In his brother’s absence, he was craving the junk food the other man usually insisted on.

Because he wanted to stretch his legs, they headed into the actual restaurant; Sam was relieved to see that there weren’t any TV’s in the place, outside of the ones hung up to use as menus, so he didn’t need to worry about any local news broadcasts showing Nancy and Victor’s pictures while they were very much alive and well two counties over. 

They ate quietly and drank as much coffee as they could (except for Nancy, who opted for iced tea), and then Sam got a coffee to go. Victor did as well.

They gassed up and got back onto I-70, which they’d follow until Colby and then hit the 383 and then the 36. Which would dump them right at the bunker. 

“Where are we going?” Nancy asked, after about an hour of silence. They’d long since got onto the 383 by this point.

“I have a place that’s safe,” Sam said. He blinked. “Well, mostly. We haven’t really had a chance to do any spring cleaning. But nothing can find us there, not unless we want it to.”

“You’re sure?” Victor said, sounding surprised.

Sam nodded. “It’s a long story. I’d rather tell it all at once, cuz it’s part of a bigger story, and some people should be waiting for me when I get back. So... if you can wait another hour and a half, you’ll get it all. I promise.”

This seemed to satisfy both of them, for the moment, and Sam drove on.

**\+ + + + +**

When Sam pulled the Impala into the bunker’s garage, he was almost immediately set upon by Charlie, Cas, and _both_ of the Trans -- who’d, apparently, come back at some point in the last 24 hours. Sam hadn’t seen them when he’d dumped Cas and Charlie off, but he was kind of not paying attention at that point, so he supposed they _could_ have been there.

They had a lot of people now. There was at least whole bloc of rooms that they knew of, because the bunker used to house a contingent of the Men of Letters, so he didn’t think they’d run out any time soon, but he’d have to clean some out and get the stockpile of linens washed at some point. He wished he’d texted Cas or Charlie to tell them to start on that. 

Kevin, of course, had his room, and when Linda got there she’d immediately claimed and cleaned out the room next to his. Cas had been staying in Dean’s room, but something about that made Sam uncomfortable -- not that Cas was in Dean’s space, but that he was in Dean’s space _without Dean’s permission._ He should probably make sure Cas got his own room at some point. 

Charlie, apparently, had spent the night in Sam’s room. He felt bad about that, but at least the sheets were clean.

Finally, everyone shut up and he was able to stop his musings. “First, let’s head upstairs,” he said, mildly. “I’ll talk better with a cup of coffee and a seat that doesn’t belong to the Impala under my ass.”

Charlie snorted, but they all moved to comply.

He asked the Trans what had gone down in Reno -- neither of them seemed inclined to talk about it, and they both looked spooked when he brought it up, so he dropped it. For now. _Eventually_ he’d want to know, but Sam was just too damn tired to deal with it at the moment.

Castiel made coffee -- somehow, the stupid coffee maker that only Dean had ever been able to operate without causing a mess, Cas had befriended. Sam didn’t care as long as he had enough caffeine in him to get this story out, and then he was going to fucking _bed_. Which reminded him --

“First thing’s first, I’m telling you guys this story and then I am going to sleep. I have had a _really_ rough week and I need it. Okay?”

There were nods all around, and murmurs that that was acceptable, as long as he told everyone what the fuck was going on, first.

“While I’m asleep,” he continued, “Someone needs to get the bed linens from the storage room right before Dean’s room and make sure they get washed. The laundry room is just before the gym. Kevin knows where it is.”

Kevin mock-saluted him.

“There are pillows and blankets in there, too. Those’ll also probably need to be washed, or aired out, or whatever it is you do with pillows,” Sam continued. He really wanted to make sure that this got done because everyone needed a place to sleep tonight. He turned to Charlie. “Google an answer for that cuz I don’t know, I spent most of my life sleeping on motel pillows.”

“Aye aye, cap’n,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes. 

Sam turned to Linda. “Everyone needs a room. For now Cas can stay in Dean’s room, if he wants, but he needs his own. They all need to be cleared out and stuff. You know how it goes. I want everyone to have a bed tonight.”

Linda nodded. 

“Not on your own, draft anyone you want,” Sam said, chuckling. “Except me.”

Linda laughed outright. “I didn’t even clean my son’s room when he _lived with me_ , what makes you think I’m gonna take on four rooms by myself? Everyone can clean their own. I’m _supervising_.”

“Sounds good,” Sam said. He lowered himself into one of the library chairs, because he’d drifted toward the library while he was walking and sipping and talking, because it was comfortable and it was Sam’s favorite place in the bunker. “Okay, so, I’m going to start at the beginning. Not all of you know this story.” He exhaled. “What do you all know about Cain and Abel?”

**\+ + + + +**

Turns out the only people who knew Dean was a Knight of Hell were Cas, Sam, and Kevin (“ _Prophet_ ,” he’d reminded everyone, tiredly). So when he got to that part of the story, everyone promptly _lost their shit_.

But when he finally went around the room and introduced everyone, there was a moment of silence, and he had to back up again and explain Victor and Nancy’s death and subsequent resurrection (apparently they’d had different names in the _Supernatural_ novels). This was when the, “Oh hey, it’s been seven years since you died,” bomb was dropped, and Nancy had a minor breakdown and Victor just sort of sat back and went scary-quiet.

“I don’t want this,” Nancy said, through her tears. “I just want my life back, but it’s been _seven years_? Seven whole _years_? My family will have moved on.” She sobbed for longer than Sam really had patience for; oh, he empathized with her, but he was _exhausted_ and wanted to sleep.

Finally Charlie offered to set her up with a new identity somewhere, anywhere she wanted. A fresh start. Somewhere no one knew her.

“That - that sounds nice,” Nancy said, sniffling. She was a kind, loving woman, from what Sam remembered of her, but she’d been thrust into this world unwilling, died, and then brought back to life. For her, it had been two days since she discovered demons were real. For the rest of the world, seven years had passed; she was a footnote. He cared what happened to her, he understood why she was crying. 

But he _just wanted to go to bed_. His ability to deal with other people’s shit had reached an official all-time low.

“Somewhere with a good church,” she added. This elicited a snort from Cas, and Nancy frowned at him and asked if he had a problem with God, and _that_ led to a whole discussion about Cas being a fallen angel, and the apocalypse, and really, Sam should have just started from the moment Dean broke into his place in Palo Alto. In between these random bouts of explanation, Linda and Charlie were facilitating laundry duties so everyone would have clean sheets to sleep on. They, after all, already knew the story about Cas and the apocalypse that wasn’t.

By the time everything was sussed out and everyone knew who everyone was, it was nearing bedtime for _everyone_ , and Sam was so zoned out that Charlie had to wave a hand in front of his face.

“Go to bed,” she said, kindly. Castiel was answering questions about Heaven to a slightly-disenfranchised Nancy; Kevin was talking about prophets to Victor; Linda was folding now-clean sheets (fitted and top) and pillow cases, and sorting them into piles for everyone to take to whichever rooms they chose. A stack of clean pillows and blankets was being divvied up in a similar manner by Charlie. “We’re about done here, and we can attack this tomorrow with a clear head and some breakfast. Okay?”

“That sounds amazing,” Sam said. He almost wished he’d invested in a memory foam mattress, like Dean had; he decided to do so as soon as possible. He stood up; everyone else ignored him, and he headed down the hall to his room.

He barely had the presence of mind to shed his clothes before he fell onto his bed, face-first, and fell into a deep sleep. If he dreamt, he didn’t remember it when he woke up.

**\+ + + + +**

Castiel wandered out into the library early the next morning; he’d gotten barely a few hours of sleep before shooting upright, wide awake and terrified, and he’d been unable to settle back down. He was choosing to blame the terrible quality bedding, rather than nightmares. Dean’s bed had _really_ been much more comfortable.

To his surprise, a ginger-colored head of hair was peeking out from the other side of the library, and when he turned to get a closer look he saw that it was Charlie, hunched over a book. She was wearing pajama pants that Castiel was fairly certain Dean would mock her for, were he around, featuring some sort of cartoon character (Finn from _Adventure Time_ , his Metatron media overload supplied him with), and curled up in one of the leather chairs, feet tucked under her legs. She looked up as he walked toward her and smiled. 

“Hey Cas,” Charlie said. She paused, and then continued, “It’s cool if I call you Cas, right?”

Castiel shrugged. “I doubt I could stop any of you from using the shortened form of my name even if I wanted to.”

Charlie’s smile widened, and Castiel took up the seat nearest her. He grabbed a book from a stack, any book, and tried to focus on it; he was so unsuccessful that it took him ten minutes to realize he was attempting to read ancient merchant-class Sumerian, but using his mental codex for American Standard English. He shook his head and sighed.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Charlie asked. Castiel glanced at her sharply, but her eyes were focused on the book she was reading.

Eventually he chose to answer, carefully. “No,” he said. Then: “It’s an interesting sensation, wanting to sleep and yet being unable to. It’s not something I’ve ever gotten used to.”

She smiled. “I’ll bet,” she said. They were silent again for several minutes; Charlie seemed to _actually_ be reading the tome on her lap, because pages shifted every few minutes, but she spoke again soon enough. 

“So, uh, question,” she said, raising her hand. It was a ritual Castiel had seen students participating in within the context of modern schooling, and he was briefly confused before he dismissed it as an idiosyncrasy. 

“Yes?” 

“You know, I’ve read the _Supernatural_ books,” she began, and then she stopped and bit her lip, before plowing forward again. “I always wanted to know, uh. Is Jimmy still knocking around in there?”

Castiel frowned; knowing Jimmy was alive and well didn’t make the subject any less painful. “I hadn’t felt Jimmy in a long time,” he said, and then amended, “Long for humans, anyway. About a year after I first resurrected Dean, when I rebelled, I had an encounter with --”

“Raphael,” Charlie said, eyes lighting up. “He smote you, right?”

Castiel nodded, trying to ignore the shudder of ...revulsion?... that crawled up his spine. “Yes, I was dead for about a day. And then just as suddenly I was alive, and Jimmy was -- not with me.” He paused. “He’s alive, though. We encountered him in Reno. I’m not sure what caused his re-emergence after our encounter with Raphael, but I have to assume it’s the same being that resurrected me, and I have no reason to believe it was anyone other than my Father.”

“Hm.” And Charlie disappeared back into her thoughts, tapping fingernails against her lips. 

Castiel assumed that she was finished with her questions, and turned back to his book. It was actually quite boring, a log of ill-advised magical attempts in Sumera some three thousand years ago, but he supposed it would do to occupy his time until he drifted back toward exhaustion.

He was acutely surprised when Charlie spoke up again.

“So are you alright?” she asked, and once again, her gaze was fixed on the text in front of her. This time, it was obvious that she wasn’t reading along, but for some reason Castiel was grateful for the subterfuge. 

“I suppose it depends on your definition of the word,” Castiel replied. “But I don’t think there’s anything particularly wrong with me.”

“I mean,” and Charlie turned toward him, “are you _okay_. Like, are you _coping_.”

He cocked his head at her, quizzical, and she plowed forward.

“What you talked about back there with the other angels. You know, when you got your, um, your grace sucked out. Against your will? That’s... kind of a huge violation. Like, if you’d been born human people would say you’d been, uh, I dunno. Sexually assaulted?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel said. He turned back to his book.

“Cas -”

“I’m _fine!_ ” he snapped, and distantly he could see that he was gripping the sides of the chair; his fingernails bit into the leather arms and his skin was pale white. His breathing was harsh and his heart was pounding, and finally -- _finally_ \-- he knew what humans were talking about when they said their heart was in their throat.

“Right,” Charlie said. And then, delicately, she continued. “I’m not gonna force you to talk about it, Cas, but if you ever wanna, no questions, no judgement. Alright?”

Castiel blinked, feeling flooding back into his limbs, and he was startled when she laid a gentle hand on one of his.

The touch was absurdly calming, and Castiel felt his heartbeat slow to something normal, felt his breathing calm down. He forced his hands to unclench, and still, Charlie’s hand remained on his. 

“I’m fine,” he repeated again. Charlie’s fingertips curled around the edges of his palm, some kind of parody of hand-holding, and she squeezed his hand.

“I believe you,” she said, smiling. 

Tentatively, he smiled back. A few minutes later both of them turned back to their books, and they didn’t speak again until the rest of the bunker’s residents woke up.

**\+ + + + +**

It was important to keep up appearances, so Dean appeared at Crowley’s side when he summoned him. 

Crowley looked pissed about something, but Dean didn’t care about what’d crawled up the guy’s asshole and died. The King of Hell (for now) had work for him, delightfully bloody work involving harvesting some souls due for collection. Apparently, even Hellhounds didn’t go for pedophiles and rapists, and that sort of work was done in-person. Usually it was done by the demon who’d done the original deal, but Lilith was dead and Crowley was busy.

The man himself was grumbling under his breath as he dug out the original contracts and 

handed them over to Dean. After several minutes of this, the twenty-odd contracts were in Dean’s hands and his curiosity was piqued.

“What’s up your ass?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“That stupid bitch took out my operation in Reno,” Crowley snarled, throwing something breakable against the wall of the throne room. Or at least, Dean assumed it was breakable, because it shattered into several pieces when it hit the stones. “Nevada’s a prime spot for deals and Reno’s been getting a lot of trade show business. Sinners and out-of-towners; it was perfect for my west coast operation, since things are tied up in Vegas right now, and the casino has a _ready-made nightclub_ in need of managing. And that _stupid cunt_ demolished the entire crew and somehow wiped all of my assets from the area.” He snarled and threw something else against the wall; this wasn’t as breakable, as it clanged loudly in the otherwise-silent room.

“Who the hell are you talking about?” Dean asked. And then, “Wait, the whole crew? Weren’t there like ten of your heavy-hitters doing the Reno job?”

“Eleven,” Crowley said, grimacing. He paced across the length of the room, hands clenched behind his back. “It’s going to take time to train up some talent to replace them. Not to mention acquire enough assets to try again. I don’t know if I can -- sources say she’s staked Reno out as hers.”

“ _Who_?” Dean repeated.

Crowley sneered. “Our little violet-haired friend from the other night. I’m not exactly sure what she is; she’s not an angel or a demon. Maybe an Old God. I don’t know. But she took out eleven of our top players and then just... drove off. Didn’t even break a sweat. I’ve dealt with her before, but I thought we were on semi-friendly terms.”

Dean shrugged. “Probably should have done your research, man. If she’s running things in Reno...”

Crowley waved him off, annoyed. 

Dean leaned against Crowley’s desk, which was off to the side of the throne, and crossed his arms. The contracts in his hands crumped slightly. “You want me to take her out?”

Crowley paused in his pacing and slowly turned to regard Dean. “You don’t get it, do you? She’s stronger than me. She’s stronger than you. I have it on good authority that she tied with Loki in a duel -- and Loki turned out to be an _archangel_. Don’t bother with her. She’s trouble. She eats demons for breakfast. Apparently.”

This bitch actually had Crowley scared. Dean laughed.

“I’m not a normal demon, pal,” Dean said. He smirked.

“If she could tie with an archangel, don’t you think she could best a Knight of Hell?” Crowley pointed out. “And do you _really_ want to find out?”

Dean snorted and ignored the tiny, tiny part of him that remembered his humanity who screamed that yes, he _did_ want to find out. Shoved it down ruthlessly and plowed on.

He waved the contracts. “Grab the souls, dump ‘em here?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Crowley said. He flung himself back into the throne, gesturing for Dean to go. Dean rolled his eyes but did as asked.

_Keep your enemies close_ , he thought, as he disappeared back to Earth.

**\+ + + + +**

The next morning everyone woke up feeling slightly hungover; yesterday’d been emotionally-exhausting and most of them didn’t get a whole lot of sleep. Charlie and Cas, of course, had been up most of the night, but apparently Linda and Kevin hadn’t slept well either.

Sam, who went to bed earlier than everyone and still slept in until 10 a.m., felt pretty good, all things considering. He woke up to find everyone gathered in the main room, eating breakfast that Linda’d decided to make; there was even a plate for him.

He thanked her heartily and went to town on it. 

Kevin and Cas had just cleared the plates and went to take them to the kitchen when, across the room, Charlie’s iPad dinged. Her eyes widened and she bolted over to where she’d left it charging; they’d never bothered to do it for her when she went to Oz and it had slowly drained and then shut down. Apparently there had been about a million updates waiting for her when she restarted it.

“What’s up?” Sam asked, coming up next to her. Linda and Victor went to go finish the laundry; Linda had decided that _all_ of the linens needed to be washed, and Victor volunteered to help. Nancy excused herself, too, possibly feeling like she was intruding, and Kevin was drafted by his mother.

“Oh, I set up a search algorithm, back before I left,” Charlie replied. “When the iPad is _on_ , anyway,” and she glared at Sam mockingly before turning back to it. “It searches the news and dips its toes into the darknet looking for hunts and other weird cases. Looks like.... eight bodies, three survivors, at the Grand Sierra Resort in Reno.”

Reno _again_. Sam groaned and Charlie shrugged.

“Hey, look, there’s video!” she exclaimed. “There’s almost _never_ video. Here, look,” and she brought it up, pressing play.

It was obvious security cam footage, grainy but in color. A woman walked out from underneath the camera’s point of view and grabbed a piece of piping or something -- it was too low-resolution for Sam to tell clearly -- and the camera flashed brightly. Then, out of nowhere, she was surrounded, and Sam swore.

“Demons. Eleven of them,” he said. “Whoever this is, they killed _demons_.”

“Shhh, there’s like four minutes of video here,” Charlie said. “Someone leaked it to Reddit. It’s gone viral.”

The woman _annihilated_ the demons; her pipe seemed to act like Ruby’s knife, which unnerved the shit out of Sam. It wasn’t until she turned around and he got a clear look at her that he jumped up and backed into a wall.

Charlie swiveled to look at him. “What’s wrong?” He’d gone pale, like he’d seen a ghost -- except if Sam Winchester saw a ghost he’d shoot it full of rock salt, not freak out like this.

“That’s her,” he croaked, pointing. “That’s Jessie Novak. I’m sure of it.”

**\+ + + + +**

There was quite the commotion after that, Sam and Charlie shouting and Victor storming out to demand answers for the noise. Castiel eventually wandered out of the kitchen, hands sudsy, only to be propelled by the shoulders by Sam over to where the iPad was sitting on the table. “Is this her?” he asked, urgent. “Is this Jessie?”

Cas squinted at the video. When he saw her expel three demons with no words spoken, and then eliminate them in their visceral form, he inhaled, sharply.

“I cannot tell if that is something that looks like Jessilyn,” he said, slowly. “But if it does, it is not Jessilyn any longer.”

There was a long silence at that. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean,” Cas replied, turning to look at him, pale and scared. “Nothing should be able to do that. _Nothing_ , short of an archangel. And yet, all of the archangels are dead or otherwise occupied. If it were Lucifer or Michael we would know -- they both would have sought us out. So something is out there, something that we _don’t know_ , and it is wearing Jessilyn Novak’s face.”

**\+ + + + +**

It didn’t take Charlie but a few minutes to hack into the City of Reno’s Business License Division and pull up the application for Tronix, which gave her Jessie Novak’s social security number. With that, the world was her oyster.

Apparently Jessie had gone off the grid for a few years, just basically completely disappearing, before re-appearing about six months ago in her chosen hometown of Reno. She bought Tronix, revamped it, and if what they could discern from her questionable financial records, was also doing a lucrative side-business in supernatural artifacts. The shell company for this particular bit of income -- Footsteps in the Sand, Inc, -- was ostensibly a New Age emporium and psychic reading den. When Charlie pulled up recent street-view pictures of the building Footsteps was supposedly housed in, Sam swore for a good few minutes. It was the warehouse he and Cas had found deserted a few days ago. 

Her Nevada photo identification showed a picture that was identical to the woman Sam had met. Something that looked like Jessie Novak, and acted enough like her to have her twin brother fooled, had taken on eleven demons by itself and lived.

All of Jessie’s money, save the money for Tronix (which, strangely, was publicly-owned; Jessie had a controlling interest, but the employees themselves each owned shares of the company), had very suddenly, two days ago, been moved from her main account, which had then been closed. This was done physically, at the bank, and that was where the money trail ended.

“Can you pull up the footage of the withdrawal from the bank?” Sam asked, urgently. 

“ _Way_ ahead of you,” Charlie said. The iPad had been discarded to the middle of the table, still showing a frozen screencap of Jessie from the video; right now, she was pecking away at the laptop she’d apparently decided to wander out and buy while Sam had been scooping up Victor and Nancy. Her old laptop was six months out of date and therefore defunct, in her eyes.

Banks had slightly better security for their closed circuit security systems, and it took about twenty minutes for Charlie to jump through loopholes and get in, but she did eventually.

The view was from behind the bank teller, watching from above; several minutes passed before Charlie spoke. “This is it, if the timestamp is correct. Whoever it is should be walking up just about now.”

A blonde woman walked up and the transaction was made; it took about 45 minutes and she never looked directly at the camera for almost the entire time. The bank manager had to be called; apparently there had been several million in the account and a special dispensation for the closure of the account had to be made, and money brought in from outside the bank.

It was worth it, however, at the end -- because eventually the woman looked up.

“That,” Sam said, angrily, “Is Bela Talbot.”

**\+ + + + +**

So Sam was going back to Reno. Castiel demanded to go as well, and Charlie wanted in. So the three of them were going to go scope it out -- Tomorrow.

Because Charlie had to set Nancy up with her new life. She came out and announced that she wanted to go to Albuquerque; she’d always wanted to visit a real desert, and she’d loved Bugs Bunny as a kid. Sam had all of the equipment to forge identification, even shit that complied with the Real ID act, thanks to Bobby’s tutelage, so Charlie spent most of the afternoon producing an authentic birth certificate and social security card, hacking the Social Security Administration to make it real, and producing a photo ID that would, if the back were scanned, bring up an entire history for one Nancy McDonald.

Nancy McDonald had led a rather boring life until recently. She had some minor traffic violations and an account at the Albuquerque library that had never been overdue even once. She had employment records at four different employers, starting when she was 16 years old, and had just recently left her last job. Her new bank account was flush with cash, sneaked through about eighty proxy servers from a GOP thinktank -- it was an amount that made Nancy feel faint; it was _plenty_ to start a new life with. She’d just submitted a lost or stolen card report; the bank would be mailing her a new debit card in five to seven business days.

Nancy McDonald had just moved to a new house she’d bought on the outskirts of Albuquerque; an entire houseworth of IKEA furniture had just been ordered to furnish it, with money stolen from Rand Paul’s campaign fund and routed through Switzerland _and_ the Cayman Islands. And because Charlie liked stealing from conservatives, she hacked FOX News and siphoned a bunch of their money through a shell company that she invented specifically for this purpose, and then bounced it around the planet for about an hour while Nancy picked out a car she liked, custom, to be delivered in a week to her new abode.

Charlie even wrote her a resume, based on her fake employment history, and an entire backstory involving an inheritance to explain her sudden wealth and appearance in a part of town she’d never have been able to afford living at before. Nancy McDonald was no fool, however, because Charlie also dumped some of the FOX money into her account and used it to purchase some stock options for a few tech companies Charlie was pretty sure were going to take off soon. Investing in her future, as it were. 

The hard part, Charlie said, would be getting the second official copy of the birth certificate into the Albuquerque Office of Vital Statistics. After that, the entire identity was 100% legit.

“Leave that to me,” Linda had said, fiercely determined. She volunteered to drive Nancy to Albuquerque, on the stipulation that Kevin stay at the bunker this time. 

“Fine by me,” Kevin said. Their trip to Reno had shaken him for some reason that he still wouldn’t explain. “I can try and look into why people are suddenly coming back to life.”

“Oh, yeah,” and Charlie grabbed her abandoned iPad, getting rid of the video of Jessie. “I set up a search algorithm for that, too.” She pulled it up and handed it to Kevin. “When it talks like Han Solo, there’s a news story about someone coming back to life. If there’s a pattern, we should be able to spot it pretty early on.”

“There’s already a pattern, and I’ve already spotted it,” Sam said. His voice was tight. “Everyone that’s come back so far is someone who met Dean and I. Bad luck for them.”

Everyone was quiet after this.

Several minutes of uncomfortable fidgeting later, Victor spoke up. “I’m gonna stay here with the kid,” he said, jerking his thumb at Kevin. “I got pretty good at research in college, and I know a few languages -- including Latin. So I might be able to spot something he can’t.”

Sam ruthlessly suppressed his surprise. Henrickson had proven himself intelligent, he shouldn’t be surprised that the man knew Latin, of all things.

Decisions made, everyone parted for their evening chores. Sam began washing his, Castiel, and Charlie’s clothes, and packing for the trip back to _fucking Reno_. Cas followed Nancy and Linda around the kitchen, annoying and helping in equal measure, while they threw together an evening meal with what was left in the kitchen. Linda made Victor promise to hit Omaha and go Big Shopping. Charlie produced a Costco Amex for this purpose, checking online to make sure it was still active; it was, and it had an astonishingly high credit limit. It was still under “Charlie Bradbury,” and so she also made a fake ID for Victor that said he was Charles Bradbury. He seemed to find this hilarious.

Sam also dug around and produced one of the burner phones that he and Dean had never had to use, so Victor could keep in communication with them if need be. Linda, Charlie and Kevin already had phones, and Sam planned to stop at a T-Mobile store somewhere on the path back to Reno and pick up the phone for the line he’d added to his and Dean’s plan -- for Castiel. Nancy McDonald had a brand-new no-holds-barred plan with Verizon waiting for her in Albuquerque; by the time Nancy and Linda got there the phone should be in the mailbox.

Sam showed Kevin and Victor where the keys for the classic cars in the garage were; Linda would be leaving without a key to the bunker, so both men swore up and down that they’d keep an ear out for her to call for them to open the door. 

The last chore of the evening was also on Sam -- he put together a list of everyone’s phone numbers. His, Castiel’s, Victor’s burner, Nancy McDonald’s new line, Kevin, Charlie, Linda, Jody, Missouri, and because he was feeling slightly hopeful -- Dean’s main number. Charlie printed them out and passed them out to everyone, but Sam dumped the main document onto Dropbox so everyone could access it anywhere -- he had a feeling he’d be updating it. 

“Neat,” Charlie said, perking up. “Emergency hunting database!”

“ _God_ , I hope not,” Sam said, sighing. 

Finally, everyone who was leaving was packed; the cars were gassed up; alarms were set. They sat down to a late dinner and retired early. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

**\+ + + + +**

Reaping souls for damnation was easy. Dean finished the last one, sent it on its way, and then hit a bar. The bartender was hot as hell, and into him, and he considered it, but really, he’d sated all of his cravings for the night. No need.

He left at last call, heading down the alley behind the bar to discreetly smoke off to parts unknown, and there she was -- the chick with the purple hair. She was leaning against the wall, casually smoking a cigarette. When she caught sight of him, she grinned and threw the smoke to the ground, crushing it out with her booted foot.

“You pissed Crowley off,” Dean said, casually. 

“I’m sure I did,” she replied, smirking. 

“He told me to stay away from you,” he continued.

“Smart man,” she commented. “For once, anyway. I’m dangerous like that.”

Dean stared at her. “I don’t think you could take me... _lady_. What does the J stand for, anyway?”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Jesselyn, but call me Jessie. It’s what I’m going by these days. I mean, it’s not my _real_ name, but it’ll do for now.”

“Jessie,” Dean said, grimacing. 

“As a point in fact, I _could_ take you,” Jessie said, expression growing serious. “You tussled with Lucifer, right? If I wanted, I could take him. I could take _you_. But I don’t want to. I’d _rather_ cure you.”

Dean sneered. “There’s nothing to _cure_ , lady. I’m a demon. It’s _great_. No guilt complexes, no burdens. For the first fucking time in my life I feel _good_. Why would I want to get rid of that?”

Jessie shrugged. “That’s kinda up to you. But you know, you just reaped 23 pedophiles, cheerfully. I think you’ve got the whole remorse bit going for you, even if you’re trying to hide it. There’s hope for you yet.”

“Why the fuck are you being so pushy about this?” Dean snarled. He itched to reach for the First Blade, to take her out.

Jessie pushed herself off of the wall with her shoulder and walked up to him. She looked him up and down and, like she wasn’t impressed, crossed her arms. “Because,” she said, looking him right in the eyes. “I promised your brother, and I don’t make promises lightly.”

If Dean had anything to say to that, Jessie never heard it, because he was very suddenly gone.

**\+ + + + +**

The next morning everything went smoothly; all of the preparation the night before paid off in a big way, and the two separate crews -- Sam, Cas, and Charlie in the Impala, and Linda and Nancy in a sedan Linda had acquired somewhere, which Sam _really_ hoped wasn’t stolen -- were out the door and on the road by 9 a.m.

Oh, they ran around like crazy people for about an hour before that, and Nancy had a minor breakdown wondering if she’d get caught with all of the fake documents -- Charlie took that particular meltdown.

“Hey,” she said, smiling kindly. “Not the first time I’ve done this. I’ve changed identities at least five or six times myself, and I used to make money doing this for other people. I’m pretty good at it.”

Sam reminded Kevin and Victor about the shopping and the research about ten times as he ran around the bunker, stressing the importance of finding out why people were resurrecting.

“I don’t want another zombie uprising, I had enough of that during the apocalypse,” he said, warily.

Victor snorted. “Don’t worry. I don’t have the urge to eat brains.” He paused, and then added, “ _Yet_.”

Everyone made sure everyone else had their phone numbers in order, ate cereal because that was all they had left, and then packed up the cars and took off; Sam, heading north to I-80 and then Reno, and Linda, heading south, toward New Mexico.

Victor and Kevin stood by the door of the garage, watching them depart, and then walked back into the bunker and stared at it. It seemed too quiet without everyone else there.

“I know we’re supposed to be researching,” Kevin said, tentatively, “And we really _do_ need to go shopping later today. But... have you ever heard of World of Warcraft?”

Victor’s eyes lit up. “Are you _kidding_? That’s still going on? I used to have a mage--”

Kevin laughed, cutting him off, and the two of them headed to the main room -- Kevin had a computer, and Charlie’s old “defunct” one was more than powerful enough to install WoW on for Victor.

**\+ + + + +**

It was getting to where Sam could probably drive to Reno in his sleep, so shortly after they hit I-80 in Hastings and started heading west, they stopped for a pee and drinks break and then Sam handed the keys to the Impala over to Cas.

“Just keep heading _that_ way,” he said, pointing. Cas nodded, seriously. Charlie looked terrified.

They stopped for the night in Rock Springs, Wyoming; the next morning, Sam started the drive again, and handed the car over to Cas in Salt Lake City. He turned to Charlie. “He needs the practice.”

“Excuse me,” Cas said, with every evidence of being truly offended. “I drove for over a year all on my own.”

“Yeah, but not in the Impala,” Sam pointed out. Which, Cas conceded, was a truth.

In Elko Cas handed the keys off to Charlie, who’d never gotten to drive the Impala before. She was excited at first, but eventually began complaining about the lack of power steering, the tape deck, and how huge it was, and Cas finally took back over at a rest stop.

There was a major accident in Fernley, Nevada; after waiting in traffic for two hours, Sam and Cas switched places and Sam _aggressively_ got off the highway. He took 50 through Carson City and hit the 580 north into Reno instead. 

This time, they got rooms at the Nugget Casino Resort. Linda was right -- the rooms were cheap and _much_ nicer.

**\+ + + + +**

It didn’t take long to track down Jimmy -- he was actually at Tronix, in the back room. The moment he saw Sam looming from the doorway he shot up.

“Something’s happening,” he said, and it wasn’t even a question. He led both Sam and Castiel outside, to the alleyway behind the bar.

“Yeah,” Sam said, uncomfortable. “We sort of... suspect your sister might not actually be your sister.”

“What?” Jimmy asked, taken aback. “No, it’s definitely Jessie. I checked. She knows shit about our childhood that no one else could know.”

“Shapeshifters can absorb the memories of the people they’re mimicking,” Sam began, and Jimmy shook his head.

“You think I’m stupid? I read all of the _Supernatural_ books, _and_ the unpublished ones online. She wears a silver ring I _personally_ bought her, and she uses borax to clean the bar when she’s here.”

For the first time ever, Sam was glad of the _Supernatural_ novels’ existence. Maybe, just maybe, people would learn how to protect themselves. There was already a small army of fans who had the anti-possession tattoo, and that was _that_ many more people who couldn’t be possessed.

“We don’t know _what_ she is,” Castiel said. “But we have footage of her taking on eleven demons and winning.”

Jimmy shook his head. “It has to be someone else. I’m sorry, but Jessie -- she’s tough, but not like, _supernaturally_ tough.”

Sam sighed and pulled out his phone, bringing up the video. “This happened four days ago at the Grand Sierra Resort.”

Jimmy paled and took the phone. “Jessie got called in to work at the GSR that day, in the A/V department.”

He shut up as he watched the video, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Afterward, he handed the phone to Sam and shook his head some more.

“That can’t be her. That can’t be. It _can’t_ be,” and he was pleading now. Cas and Sam looked at each other and sighed. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Sam said, lying through his teeth. “Look, you have my number, right? Just -- call me if things start to get weird, alright?”

Jimmy looked like he was going to puke.

**\+ + + + +**

“That was unpleasant,” Cas said, as they got into the Impala and drove to Jessie’s old warehouse.

“It was,” Sam replied. “Jessie is all of the family he has left, besides Claire, and we might have just taken her from him.”

Cas sighed.

“I take it he didn’t... take it well,” Charlie said. She’d stayed in the car; despite being a lesbian, she hated gay bars (“The music is terrible,” she’d complained), and was also busy digging into the police investigation into the so-called “mass murder.” They hadn’t identified Jessie yet, but eventually they _would_.

“He did not,” Sam confirmed. He sighed again and pulled out of the Tronix parking lot.

The warehouse was just as empty as it had been last time they were in Reno, but that worked for their purposes. Sam pulled out the ingredients to summon a demon by name, and got to work putting the complex spell together.

Finally, he lit it on fire and said her name aloud: “Bela Talbot.”

They waited twenty minutes, but she never showed. 

**\+ + + + +**

“Once again, a trip to Reno is completely wasted,” Sam groused. They’d gotten into the Reno PD’s morgue and examined the bodies, which all reeked of sulfur; they’d interviewed the three survivors who eventually confessed to demonic possession. Possibly the only bright point of the entire trip was that Sam was able to provide each of them with the anti-possession design, advising them to get it made into jewelry or tattooed on them. 

Which made Charlie realize _she_ was vulnerable, so they spent an afternoon at a tattoo parlor as she got it tattooed somewhere private enough that Cas and Sam had to wait in the lobby.

But now, four days later, they were heading back toward Kansas. 

“I wouldn’t say it was a _total_ loss,” Castiel said, from the driver’s seat. He looked pleased with himself -- he had, in fact, turned out to be _incredibly_ good at poker, and had increased the amount of actual cash they had on-hand by a significant amount.

“Yeah, it wasn’t half-bad,” Charlie said, who’d been hit on at Tronix the second night, when they went back to warn Jimmy that the police were coming to question him about his sister. She’d not come back to the hotel that night, and described the evening as, “The best rebound sex I’ve ever had,” before Sam shut her down.

“No details, please.”

Sam silently fumed all the way until they hit Winnemucca. He’d probably have kept fuming, but that’s when it happened. 

He was just about to suggest that they stop for food and a restroom break when a familiar sound filled the car. 

He froze, and was about to turn, when the car swerved off the road. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Charlie shouted, and there were sounds of her shuffling as far to the passenger side as she could. Sam could see that Cas was staring in the rearview mirror in awe and horror, and he sighed in resignation as he turned himself.

“What?” Sam said, when he caught sight of their newest passenger, who’d popped in on the sound of angel wings. “ _How_?”

“Hey boys,” Gabriel said, smirking. Then he nodded at Charlie. “And girl. Miss me?”

**\+ + + + +**

The three of them attempted to ask questions at the exact same time.

“Who the hell is _this_?” Charlie began.

“How are you still _alive_?” asked Castiel.

“ _What the fuck are you doing in Dean’s car?_ ” Sam exclaimed.

“Good to know that _some_ things are eternal,” Gabriel replied, winking and pointing a finger at Sam. 

“Seriously, what the _hell_ is going on?” Sam demanded.

“Welcome back, Gabe! Thanks for sacrificing yourself to our cause, Gabe! We’re so happy you’re alive, Gabe!” Gabriel replied, scowling and crossing his arms. “Man, I thought you’d be _happy_ to see me. Dicks, all of you. Except you,” he said, turning toward Charlie. “I’ll give you a pass since you didn’t know who I was until about two seconds ago.” He turned toward Castiel and poked him in the arm; Castiel flinched. “You should be _especially_ grateful, since I saved your little _pets_ from getting skewered by a bunch of Old Gods. Not that anyone told you, I’m sure. Christ, what does a guy have to _do_ to get a little appreciation around here?”

“Out of the four times I ever saw you,” Sam pointed out, trying to keep his voice level, which was _hard_ , “you tried to kill us, you killed my brother hundreds of times _while I watched_ , you tried to get us to say yes to Lucifer and Michael, and then you saved our asses because of _Kali_. Forgive me for being _leery_.”

“A change of heart counts for nothing?” Gabriel replied, tightening his arms. “Cuz I gotta tell ya, it counts to _someone_.” And then he grinned gleefully, which alarmed pretty much everyone in the car except for the archangel himself. “ _Someone_ who has the power to resurrect archangels.”

Everyone went silent for a few seconds.

“God?” Cas asked. He looked furious.

“Nah,” Gabriel replied, waving that off. He relaxed as he continued to speak. “Dad had - Well, I guess he had _something_ to do with it, but it wasn’t him.” And he frowned, expression pensive, before abruptly leaping forward and clapping his hands. “But _my_ boss, the one who did it? Wants to meet you guys.”

“I’m not sure I want --” Cas began, but then Gabriel snapped his fingers.

The three of them glanced around. They were in a nondescript dirt parking lot for what looked to be a bar.

“--To meet him,” Castiel finished, lamely. He sighed.

Sam squinted. “Is that the _Roadhouse_?” he said, disbelief apparent in his voice. Gabriel laughed.

“Sure is. C’mon, I’ve got shit to do.”

**\+ + + + +**

Gabriel led them into the bar; It had obviously been rebuilt, but if one looked closely one could see indications that there had been a fire.

The archangel pushed the doors open and strode in like he owned the place; Sam, Charlie, and Castiel followed, alarmed and alert for attacks. 

The inside looked nothing like the old Roadhouse, from what Sam could tell; pool tables had been replaced with actual tables for eating at, and the pinball machines had been replaced with video game cabinets. Instead of taking up half the room, the bar now ran the entire length of the building, and there were actually separate rooms for men and women instead of one generic multipurpose shitter. The place was still dark, but the room looked newer, shinier.

A redheaded woman was tending bar, cutting lemons near the sink. Her long, curly hair swayed in time with her movements; she handled a knife like she knew her way around one, which meant she was either former military, a hunter, or had just been in the food service industry for too long. She had perky breasts, broad shoulders, and muscular forearms.

“Gemma, my love,” Gabriel began, sliding a hand down the bar in front of her.

“Don’t even _try_ it, Gabe,” Gemma replied, rolling her eyes. She finished cutting up the lemon and moved on to limes. “What do you want?”

Gabriel sighed and rolled his eyes. “Nothing from _you_. Boss around?”

Gemma laughed and gestured with the knife, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a quick flip of her neck. “In the garage. Where else?”

The archangel winked, flashed her a two-fingered salute, and whirled around, leading their bewildered trio to a door that led around to the back of the lot. 

“Gemma’s one tough woman,” Gabe commented, sighing. “She’d have to be, I guess, living the life she’s led, but damn. I gotta tell you, I’ve gained some respect for your type. _Not_ that I’m gonna rip my grace out and Fall, but you meet people like Gemma and you start to reprioritize.” He stopped in front of a large, free-standing garage, designed for either a lot of work or a lot of cars, and obviously added on since the Roadhouse had burnt down so many years ago; there were windows, which were all shuttered, and loud rock music blared from within. “This is where I take off. Like I said, I got shit to do. Boss’s inside and expecting you. Just go on in.” He smirked and then disappeared.

Sam shuddered. “He gives me the creeps.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Charlie said, wrinkling her nose. She turned toward Cas. “You okay?”

Cas had hunched in on himself. “I’ll survive,” he said, shortly, before reaching out to the door handle. 

The garage housed several motorcycles and a few cars, all in various states of repair, and one mint-condition classic car that made all three of them immediately think of Dean. They continued on, following the music to its source.

There was a folding plastic divider between what seemed to be the workshop portion of the garage -- based on the loud, grinding noises coming from that direction -- and the three of them rounded it. A dim workshop light swung from the rafters, illuminating the space; there were tools, all the tools one could ever need; sanders, grinders, welders, saws, hand tools, rivet guns, everything. There was a car lift close to the divider, which ran on a track and could be, if Sam figured it correctly, pushed out of the way to make room for a car; near there was a high-end air compressor, a pressure washer, an impact wrench, and a torque wrench. 

Whoever the boss was, they were wearing a grey workshop coverall and a welding helmet. A piece of metal -- some kind of exhaust pipe -- was pressed up against a grinder and actual sparks were flying as they shaped the pipe. Castiel’s unease grew until the figure stopped, shut off the grinder, and reached over to turn the music off. Then they pulled off their gloves and finally, their helmet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam groaned as she turned around.

Jessie Novak raised her eyebrow and smirked. “I told you I’d be in touch, Sam. Ye of little faith.”

There was a pained intake to Sam’s right, and he turned and saw Cas staring at her like she was impossible, like she shouldn’t _exist_. Like he was having a religious experience.

And without warning, Castiel, Angel of Thursday, fell to his knees.


	8. Episode Seven - I Am Not a Leader of Men

** Episode Seven - I Am Not a Leader of Men **

_Turn your television off_

_And I will sing a song_

_And if you suddenly have the urge_

_Well you can sing along_

_I touch your hand, touch your face_

_I think the fruit is rotten_

_Give me lessons on how to breathe_

_Cuz I think I’ve forgotten_

_Yeah, think I’ve forgotten_

_Oh, I am not a leader of men_

_Since I prefer to follow_

_Do you think I could have a drink?_

_Since it’s so hard to swallow_

_Yeah, so hard to swallow_

\--Nickelback, “Leader of Men”

_“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam groaned as she turned around._

_Jessie Novak raised her eyebrow and smirked. “I told you I’d be in touch, Sam. Ye of little faith.”_

_There was a pained intake to Sam’s right, and he turned and saw Cas staring at her like she was impossible, like she shouldn’t exist. Like he was having a religious experience._

_And without warning, Castiel, Angel of Thursday, fell to his knees._

**\+ + + + +**

Sam and Charlie were frozen; not _magically_ , just with intent. The number of beings that Castiel would bow before in this universe, as far as they knew, numbered exactly _one_.

Jessie ignored their silence, instead moving in front of Castiel and squatting to his level. His eyes were still on the ground, and he was breathing harshly, so she had to put her hand on his chin and drag his eyes up to hers.

“I wouldn’t let you bow to me back then, what makes you think I’m game for it now?” she said, like it was an inside joke, soft and kind and completely at odds with what Sam knew of this woman.

“What. The. _Shit_ ,” Charlie said. Jessie laughed from her spot on the floor, and then stood. She held out a hand to Castiel, and with great reluctance he accepted the help up.

The former angel kept his eyes on the ground, like he wasn’t worthy, and Jessie laughed again, and most importantly: _no one was answering Charlie’s question_.

“I’d like to know what’s going on too,” Sam interjected. Jessie snorted.

“From what I hear that’s par for the course,” she said. Still, she hefted herself up onto a metal worktable and kicked her feet -- she wasn’t actually very tall, especially compared to Sam or Cas, and her feet dangled a foot off the ground. “Castiel here is my favorite brother. We go _way_ back.”

A pained intake of air issued from Cas’s general direction, but Sam ignored it in favor of staring at Jessie. He still wasn’t sure if it was going to be a fight. Of course, if it was, they were _vastly_ outgunned, because whoever this woman was, she’d _resurrected an archangel_.

“I _knew_ you weren’t human,” Sam said.

“I _am_ ,” Jessie replied, easy. “Mostly, anyway. Human with an extra ingredient, I guess you could say.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively while pinching her finger and thumb near each other, to indicate a small amount of something. Sam made an undignified noise at the innuendo.

“What does that even _mean_?” he asked.

“I’ll give you some hints,” she said, leaning forward. Sam didn’t think he’d ever actually met someone who’s eyes _twinkled_ before, and it creeped him the hell out. Jessie held her hand in front of her and began ticking points off on her fingers. “One: I just called Castiel my brother, but I’m _not_ an angel, nor a demon. Two: I’m human. Three: I resurrected an archangel, so obviously I’ve got some nonhuman powers, and they must be damn powerful cuz your best friend the _fallen angel_ starts getting all pious around me. And four, a Trickster was taken down on my orders, so I definitely know about the hunting world.”

“Are you God?” Sam replied.

Jessie snorted. “No, and it’d be great if you’d never, _ever_ compare me to that dick again, thanks.”

Castiel muttered something about blasphemy under his breath and Jessie chortled but didn’t reply.

There was silence for a few long, awkward moments, before Jessie sighed and leaned back, propping herself up on her outstretched arms. “I’ll give you a freebie: if we’re going by _linear time_ , I’m technically about two thousand years old.”

Another beat, and then the penny dropped.

“Are you _serious_?” Sam demanded.

“Deadly serious,” she said, smirking. She leaned forward again. “Figured it out, did you?”

“You _cannot_ be serious,” Sam continued, his voice raising in both pitch and volume.

“She’s _completely_ serious,” Cas said, voice also raised. He looked flushed and unhappy.

“Stop arguing and answer the question!” Charlie exclaimed. She was equal parts freaked out and frustrated with the circular questioning. “ _Christ_!”

Jessie laughed. “Well. That’s what they call me around these parts, anyway. I’m more fond of my original name, _Yeshua_.” She was silent for a moment, like she was relishing the old name, before continuing. “Some asshole decided to stick ‘the Anointed’ on the end there after I died the first time, and you fuck around with linguistic drift and mistranslation enough and eventually you come to --”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam finished. An almost-deadly calm seemed to have settled over him.

“The one and only.” This was said with a grin, and Jessie hopped down from the counter. “I mean, it’s not like I _go_ by that these days. I’m kinda trying to fly under the radar, actually, so it’d be real nice if you’d _not_ tell anyone about it. Could you imagine? The Christians would basically shit themselves if I outed myself. Jesus in a girl meatsuit? There’d be _riots_.”

Charlie was staring at her. “You’re not joking,” she said. She was pretty pale to begin with, but she actually _looked_ white as a sheet.

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “Human with just the _teensiest_ sliver of God’s grace,” and she held up her fingers a centimeter apart. “Not an angel, but stronger than one. Not a demon, because even if I _could_ go to hell they couldn’t torture my soul into oblivion. Thanks to Dad’s grace, once again. Can’t turn into a monster, either; lord knows I’ve tried over the years, just to _know_.” She shrugged.

“So, what, Jimmy’s sister _the atheist_ is actually Jesus Christ? That makes _no sense_ ,” Sam said.

She shook her head. “Jimmy’s sister was a _vessel_ , same as Jimmy. The Novak line makes _strong_ vessels; if the Winchester line had died out, they’d have been next in line to house Michael during the Apocalypse.” She shot Sam a dirty look. “Which is when I was _supposed_ to be able to go home, to Heaven, but leave it to Winchesters to knock that plan askew.” She sighed and made a sort of futile gesture. “Anyway, her encounter with Castiel sorta fucked her up, and she committed suicide.”

“What?” Castiel, who hadn’t said much up to this point, looked up so fast Sam thought he’d sprain something. “Jessie’s in _Hell_?”

Jessie shook her head. “No, I got to her in time. I offered her divine forgiveness if she let me use her body as a vessel. Atheist or not, she was a good kid. You know, I always tried to tell Dad that the whole suicide rule was screwed up, but he was _super_ into it. Shoulda given me a clue, you know, that dealing with him wouldn’t work out for me in the end.” She sighed and crossed her arms.

“Okay, none of this explains why you’re _here_ ,” Sam pointed out. “According to pretty much every version of the Bible, you’re supposed to be ruling Heaven.”

“Oh, because the Bible got everything _else_ right, did it?” she replied, rolling her eyes and hugging her arms closer to her. “I made a deal.” Cas let loose with some sort of outraged noise and she waved him off. “Not with a demon, with _God_. Have you ever _read_ the Old Testament? Sorry, Castiel, but he was a _dick_. I mean, I maintain that he still _is_ a dick, but he’s calmed down over the years.”

Castiel looked away from her again; Sam and Charlie stared at her in incomprehension.

“I made a deal,” she repeated, gesturing. “God stops demanding sacrifices and idiotic rules of living, and I stay on Earth until the apocalypse, producing God-vessels and prophets.”

“That doesn’t really clear anything up,” Sam said. 

“My _children_ , you dimwits,” she said, her face taking on a bitter expression. “Why do you think I was even _born_ in the first place? God wanted to walk his creation without destroying it, so he needed a vessel to house him. At first he thought I’d do the trick, but he put a little too much of his own grace in the mix. One generation’s dilution’s what’s needed.” She looked angry now. “My children, no matter what form I take on, are always either prophets or vessels for God. Sometimes both,” and her mouth twisted up again and she stopped speaking.

“Dude,” Charlie said, awe coloring her voice. “And I thought _my_ last foster-mom was a bitch.”

“You have _no_ idea,” Jessie said. She sighed. “Anyway, that was the deal. Dad gives humanity some leeway, I walk the Earth until literal and actual kingdom come. He tells me who I’m supposed to have kids with, I have kids with them, I take off.” She snorted. “It’s kind of a nice parallel, I guess. God’s a deadbeat dad, and so is his son.”

There was a long, awkward silence, before Sam spoke again.

“So why are you here now? Why are you talking to us? Do you want, um... revenge? For stopping the Apocalypse?”

“Eh,” Jessie said, waving a hand again. “I _thought_ about it, not gonna lie, because looking at it from my end it was a dick move, but really? The Apocalypse was poorly planned and executed. I met a bunch of the angels who moved it along, and I’m not really interested in cohabiting with them for the rest of eternity.” Her voice was still bitter, but Sam let himself relax because, apparently, she wasn’t going to kill them. “No, I made another deal, and that’s why you’re here.”

“What, the first one didn’t screw you over enough? Went back for seconds?” Charlie blurted out.

“ _Charlie_ ,” Sam hissed.

Jessie laughed. “Ah, Charlie. I’ve heard so much about you. Your honesty is _refreshing_.”

Sam turned and glared at her. “Okay, then. What were the terms of this deal? Did God need a -- a holy kidney transplant? What?”

She snorted. “This whole... mess,” and she waved her hands again, “that you guys created. Heaven’s in chaos. There are no archangels leading, _I’m_ not allowed up because that would make God fallible, and the big man himself ducked out. The ranks are a mess, thanks to Castiel offing a bunch of ‘em wholesale and Metatron breaking their wings, and Hell isn’t much better, since dear old Lucy’s got eyes only for Michael these days.”

She sighed, hauled herself back up to the table, and pulled her legs up with her, sitting cross-legged. “Anyway, I’ve been tasked with setting it all to rights, in a manner that Dad and I worked out together, and since I’m taking the load on, Dad’s agreed to take an _extended vacation_ and leave this planet the hell alone. He pays it an inordinate amount of attention considering he created basically the entire cosmos.” Jessie rolled her eyes. “That means restoring a hierarchy within Heaven and making sure no one mistakes what they’re supposed to be doing. It also means introducing the concept of free will to angels, which means we need archangels that are sympathetic to humanity.” She smirked. “Gabriel was basically ready-made, _way_ more empathy for us puny human beings than any of his highly-esteemed brothers, so I brought him back to life.”

“You think _Gabriel_ has sympathy for humanity?” Sam demanded. “Are you _high_?”

“No,” Jessie said. She grinned again. “I haven’t been back to the sixties in a few years, but if you’d like I’ll let you know next time I’m going.”

“You can time travel too? Are you _freaking kidding me?_ ” Charlie sounded equal parts angry and jealous. 

Castiel sighed.

**\+ + + + +**

_Ely, Nevada_

Dean was bored. 

Well, bored was a relative term. There wasn’t anything to kill right now on Crowley’s end, and he’d recruited most of the free agents (or killed them, as the case may be) that were on Earth. His minions were spreading dissent through the ranks, subtly. He felt like he needed something to do, but what?

Hastur, the demoness wearing the banker, approached him as he was downing a shot. He’d _appropriated_ this bar a few days ago and, for lack of a better place, was using it as a base of operations. 

“We need a better place to lay low,” she said, eyeing the bar. It was full to the brim with the demons who weren’t up for subtlety: the fighters, the wimps, the spooks. “This isn’t big enough.”

“This is just main stage,” he said, grinning. There. _This_ was something to do. 

Hastur raised her eyebrow, and Dean gestured to the bartender. His eyes flicked black as he dug around behind the bar and came back to Dean with what he’d asked for -- a map of the continental US.

“Back when I was human,” Dean said, “I had a dad. And he was in the military. So I got to learn all about troop placement.”

Hastur smiled. “When do we start?”

“Right now,” Dean said. He pointed on the map to where they were, and then began pointing at a few other spots. “Warehouses, derelict buildings. The usual setup. Just possess the owners if you have to.”

“I’m on it,” she said, nodding. And then: “Where do you want to start first?”

Dean leaned back, considering, and then grinned. “Lincoln Springs, Missouri. My brother, he’s not stupid. Get it set up; I want a few heavy hitters there for protection detail, but let’s put the new demons and the spooks there.” He paused. “Next I want something in Portland -- Maine, not Oregon -- for the vamps that signed up with us.”

“Consider it done,” Hastur said, smiling. “I might just get a new meatsuit.”

“You should,” Dean said, wrinkling his nose and grinning at her. “Something that fits you better.”

She laughed and was on her way.

Dean went back to planning, using a keno crayon he’d pocketed at some point to draw where he wanted bases set up. This? _This_ could keep him occupied until the Mark demanded its due.

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie had a life, back in Victorian England, where she’d had _manners_ drilled into her. So eventually she swallowed her pride and sat the three of them down in a corner of the garage with beers because offering guests a drink was the _polite_ thing to do.

She made a few phone calls while the three of them got uneasily settled down. About what, Sam couldn’t hear, and honestly he wasn’t sure if he _wanted_ to know. 

Finally, she sat down, Red Stripe in hand, and pointed toward Sam. “You have questions. Let’s get it over with, I have shit to do.”

Sam looked startled. “I, ah - “

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t play coy with me, Sam Winchester.”

Sam fumbled for a bit, trying to settle on one question out of the no-doubt thousands that had sprung up since this woman --

“Dude, wasn’t Jesus a dude?” Charlie blurted out.

Jessie blinked and then laughed. 

“ _Charlie_ ,” Sam said.

Cas sighed again, taking a sip of his beer and frowning at it. Not a fan of Red Stripe, it seemed.

“Not that I’m surprised,” Jessie said, like she was continuing a conversation from earlier. “Seeing how humans think. But gender isn’t so set in stone like that. I mean, you two,” and she gestured toward Sam and Cas, “saw Raphael as a man, and then as a woman, right? But Raphael never saw themselves as male or female because they didn’t have a specific gender identity. Myself, I gave gender up several millenia ago.” She shrugged and took a sip of her beer. “Genderfluid is the term people are using now, I think. I’d have to be flexible, wouldn’t I, since I have to go with what vessels are available?”

“I know what genderfluid is,” Charlie protested. “We just met a genderfluid person like not even a few days ago.” Jessie shrugged and took another sip of her beer.

Sam took the chance and jumped in. “So you can’t be born again?”

Jessie snorted and pointed the mouth of her beer at him. “Excellent choice of words. I _can_ be born again -- have before -- but it’s kind of a pain in the ass, and besides, I always remember about three years in.” Her face twisted up into something similar to resentment, and Sam wisely decided to drop that topic.

Castiel asked a question in some foreign language. Jessie answered him in the same language, her voice sharp. Sam huffed in irritation as Castiel asked another question in what sounded kind of like Latin, and Jessie answered in something else entirely.

“Rude,” Charlie said.

“I agree with Charlie,” Jessie said, scowling.

Castiel looked suitably chastened. There was an awkward silence before Charlie did what she did best and blurted out the first thing on her mind.

“Wait, so your kids are prophets? That means -- Chuck? And _Kevin_?”

Jessie gave a sad sort of smile. “ _All_ the current generation of prophet, actually. Chuck -- well, he was a special case.” She smiled mischievously and Charlie could see Sam and Cas trying to figure out the puzzle pieces. She reviewed their earlier conversations and what she’d read of the _Supernatural_ novels; to her surprise, she got there first. She kept quiet and let the boys connect the dots -- after all, they’d actually had to _live_ it.

Sam figured it out next. “ _Shit_ ,” he said, shooting up from his seat. “Are you serious? We were talking to him the _whole time_?”

Castiel, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion Sam had because his face had grown thunderous. “I searched the entire globe, and the whole time --”

“Not the _whole_ time,” Jessie interjected. Her voice had taken on a soothing tone. “Calm _down_ , you guys. Sam, sit, _now_.” She pointed at him, threateningly, and Sam had to resist the urge to throw his beer at her head.

So they were all on the same page. Chuck had been God, screwing with them as usual.

“When you first met Chuck, he really was _just_ Chuck Shurley, prophet and hack writer. Dad settled in shortly after you guys left that first time. Said he had business to take care of. _Weird_ , though, cuz he doesn’t normally take the active prophets, which makes me think that he had a specific reason for choosing someone you knew.” Her gaze settled on Castiel.

He froze before carefully leaning back in his chair. “Me?”

“ _You_ ,” Jessie said, smirking. “Not that you were the only angel ever to grasp for free will, but usually they chose to Fall and enjoy what humanity had to offer. Others, like Gabriel and Metatron, hide themselves away, powers intact, and Fall in a different way. You, Castiel? You’re different. You found free will, and you fought back with it. Dad was interested.”

“I’ve heard I’m different,” Castiel muttered, his fingers seeking out and beginning to peel at the beer label. “I cause problems. Naomi --”

“Was a fucking idiot,” Jessie said, waving her hand to dismiss his claims. “Dad was _proud_ of you, Castiel. Naomi had her uses within the hierarchy, but any opinions she formed were pretty damn biased. When I bring her back --”

“You’re bringing her _back_?” Cas asked, tensing. 

“Of _course_ I am,” Jessie said, frowning at Cas. “I’m bringing a _lot_ of the angels back. That’s the point. Restoring the order of heaven? Of course, the heavy-hitters, like Raphael, they’ll stay dead, or get depowered when they get brought back; I haven’t decided yet. Michael and Lucifer will stay in the Cage, for now at least.” She shook her head. “I’ve got a -- a list, guess. Partial. That’s what Gabriel’s doing -- seeking the last spark of grace for those angels who were killed. If I have that, I can tell who it _was_ , and I can rebuild them.”

“But Naomi --”

“Has a purpose and had good intentions,” Jessie said, glaring at Cas. Sam placed a restraining hand on his arm and Cas forced himself to relax. “Toward the end, she found free will. We need her. We _need_ angels who understand free will and empathize with the plight of humanity.”

Castiel sat down and seemed to draw within himself. Jessie leaned forward and put her hand on his knee, and he looked up and met her eyes.

“Everything is going to be set to rights, Castiel. One last get-out-of-jail-free card. Okay?”

He swallowed and looked away.

“So, what, you’re just going to rule over Heaven from afar?” Sam asked after a second.

“Sort of,” she said. “I’m to install a new hierarchy -- six archangels, all of whom have sympathies that lean toward human. Gabriel, of course, has his time here to make him like humans a bit more than your average archangel, so he was resurrected. Took me fucking _forever_ to find his grace,” and she wrinkled her nose. “Anyway, Dad and I worked it out. Three angels -- that’s Gabriel and two internal promotions -- and three humans.”

“Wait, _what_?” This was said more or less simultaneously by Sam, Charlie, and Castiel.

She smiled. “Haven’t you ever read the Book of Enoch? When the time is right, three human souls will ascend to Heaven without reaching their final death and become archangels.”

“That’s --” Charlie began.

“Fucking _stupid_ ,” Sam said.

“Amazing,” Castiel said, at the same time. The former angel frowned at Sam.

“How does that even _work_?” Charlie said, clearly trying to wrap her mind around the concept. 

“It’s not really that difficult at a theoretical level,” Jessie said. “I’ve done it before, transformed a human into an angel. I mean, how do you think Enoch got into Heaven to write about it? I have to borrow some gravitational energy from the nearest black hole, but at the end of the day a soul and angelic grace are pretty similar in construction.”

Sam stared at her. “So you’re supposed to turn three people into archangels? Who?”

Her expression darkened. “I’ll find out eventually, but Dad claims _he_ doesn’t even know, so.” Then she brightened. “Taking an angel and turning them into an archangel is a lot easier, and more fun, too.”

“Who?” Castiel asked.

She smirked. “Anabiel. You’ve met with her a few times, right?”

“ _Anna_?” Castiel said, fingers twitching. “She’s an _archangel_?”

“Well, she is _now_ ,” Jessie said, rolling her eyes. “She’s been helping Gabriel and I.”

“So there’s another angel that’s getting a promotion,” Charlie said. “Who’s the lucky -- er -- being?”

Jessie smirked. “ _That_ one was a little more tricky, but I think I’ve got it worked out.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a vial, shining bright blue-white. “Castiel’s grace was destroyed when Metatron pulled that little stunt of his, but I think I did a pretty good job recreating it.” She tipped it toward Castiel. “What do you think?”

Cas froze in his seat, staring at the vial. 

Charlie stared at Jessie in astonishment, and then realized what was happening and quickly turned toward Sam. To Charlie’s complete lack of surprise, Sam’s expression was forlorn, angry, and upset. After all, Dean was a demon; Cas was the only brother Sam had left.

“ _Sam_ ,” she said, urgently, her voice quiet.

“I -- no, I can’t,” Castiel said, pushing as far back as he could into his chair, trying to physically separate himself from his grace. “I _can’t_ , I know what happens when I have power like that, I _can’t_.”

He looked terrified, and Charlie’s heart broke for him.

Jessie sighed. “Cas, I’m really sorry, but you don’t have a _choice_. Our Father hand-picked you.”

“Fuck _that_ ,” Sam said -- shouted, really -- bolting up from his chair. “You think we haven’t fought the will of God before? We’ll do it again, and we’ll _win_.”

Jessie’s eyes narrowed and she put a hand on his chest, pushing him with far more physical strength than she ought to have and forcing him to sit back in his chair. “The difference, Sam? God is a hands-off kind of person, and I’m really, _really_ not.”

Charlie could swear, for a brief second, that she wasn’t five foot four inches, but _immense_ , all-encompassing, massive and powerful. And then the moment was gone and it was just Jessie again, in front of them.

“I have a vested interest in this succeeding, and I’m more powerful than _any_ archangel.” Her eyes were cold as she stared down at the hunter. “I want you on my side in this, because you could be problematic, but make no mistakes, I’ll do it without you, and I’ll make your life a living hell in the meantime.” She smiled, but it had no humor in it. “We can see how it compares to the real thing, if you’d like.”

Sam swallowed, the fight leaving him as suddenly as it had appeared. “Why Cas?” he asked, sinking back down into his chair.

Jessie shrugged. “Do I _look_ like God? I have no idea what kicks around in what passes for His head. But He’s got a soft spot for Castiel, always _has_ , and while he fucked up some here and there --”

“I _decimated Heaven_ ,” Castiel interjected. 

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Jessie said.

“ _Mistakes_ ,” Charlie said, incredulous. 

“Mistakes,” Jessie repeated, firmly. “Which _I,_ ” and she jabbed her thumb at her chest, “am fully capable of fixing, although it’s going to take some work.”

“I can’t,” Cas replied. His eyes were wide with fright. “I can’t, _Yehoshua_ , I _can’t_ , I can’t do it, you’ve seen what I do when I...” he trailed off.

Jessie sighed. “Castiel,” she said, closing the distance between them before kneeling at his feet. “ _Qafsiel_. Brother.” She took his hand, sliding the vial of grace in between his clenched fingers. “This is different. This is the _will of God_. This is pure grace, not tainted souls. You had to have done that, _experienced_ that, to be trusted with this.” She put her fingers around his, both of them now clutching the grace. Then she smiled at him. “I have _faith_ in you.”

Castiel’s breath was unsteady; the sound he let out in reply was like a sob, quick and pained. 

“What do I do?” he asked, a moment later.

“This is grace, plain angelic grace, to replace what was stolen from you,” Jessie said, tightening her hand around his. “You take this, you’re an angel again, nothing more. After that is when I get to work.”

“Will it hurt?” Sam asked. He sounded completely lost.

Jessie’s face was solemn as she looked over at Sam. “It’ll hurt more than anything he’s ever experienced, because I’ll be changing the very fabric of what he _is_. But then he will be powerful and ready to take his place with Gabriel and Anabiel, and to help restore Heaven to its former glory.”

Cas let out one last breath and then nodded.

Jessie pulled her hand back and then looked at the two humans. “You might wanna close your eyes,” she said. And then, after a second of consideration, “Cover your ears, too.”

“I think you should leave the building,” Castiel said. Sam didn’t know Cas as well as Dean had, but he could still see that he was just barely retaining his control, his face not quite as stony as usual, eyes suspiciously shiny. 

“I think you’re underestimating me,” Jessie said, smiling. It was a gentler smile than she’d graced them with before, and Sam got the idea that maybe she was a little bit fond of Castiel after all. “I’ve gotten a lot better since we last met.”

“I won’t risk Sam and Charlie,” Castiel argued.

“Neither will I,” Jessie countered. “If only because at the moment, their existence makes my world a lot easier.” Her smile sharpened. “That you’ve grown a weird attachment to Winchesters, blood or adoptive, is incidental, but it serves me well to have them alive and kicking. And capable of sight and hearing. _Trust_ me, Castiel.”

“Cas --” Sam began, hesitantly.

“Just sit over there,” Jessie said, pointing at him without looking. “Sit there, cover your eyes and ears, look pretty. Both of you.”

“Sam’s gonna fail this test,” Charlie muttered under her breath. Sam frowned and nudged her with his shoulder before obediently covering his sensory extremities, and just in time.

There was a horrible (wonderful?) noise, like a booming drum, like shattering glass, like the harmony of the universe compressed into ten seconds. A flash of blue-white light, and then all was calm.

“There, see?” Sam and Charlie could both hear Jessie’s voice, muffled, and they carefully squinted their eyes open. “Not even a shattered window.”

Castiel stood in the center of the cleared-out space in the garage where they’d been sitting, looking down at his hand curiously and somewhat awed. 

Sam couldn’t tell what the difference was, but unmistakably, Castiel was no longer human.

“You recreated it perfectly,” Castiel said. His voice was off, like maybe he was unhappy. 

“I’m _very_ good at what I do,” Jessie said, smirking. “Besides, I’ve been working with grace a lot lately. It’s kind of like working with the different types of clay -- even if you’re used to working with ceramic clay, once you figure out how polymer clay handles, well, the principles of sculpting are still the same.”

“Were you a hippy in another life?” Charlie asked. Jessie rolled her eyes and didn’t answer.

“Anyway, that was the easy part,” and Jessie sounded almost apologetic. She turned to them. “You two should stick around. Bear witness to the creation of the last angelic archangel.”

**\+ + + + +**

“Bear witness,” Sam echoed.

“Bear witness,” Jessie said, nodding. She’d slid her eyes back toward Cas at that pronouncement, and didn’t take her eyes off of him while talking to them. “Not exactly my first choices for such an important duty, but considering how instrumental the Winchesters were in Castiel’s, uh, _development_ , I guess I couldn’t ask for better ones.”

“I’m not a Winchester,” Charlie pointed out.

“Really?” Jessie asked, looking at her curiously. “I mean, I know you’re not _blood_ , but you’ve got the whole Winchester aura thing going on. The one that tells angels and demons, ‘these are ours, you can’t touch them.’”

Charlie didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified. Castiel just looked pained. 

“Also, implying Cas went through puberty because of us isn’t creepy _at all_ ,” Sam muttered, rolling his eyes skyward before closing them and covering his ears.

Jessie sighed and strolled toward Sam and Charlie, tapping them both square in the forehead. “It won’t last forever,” she said. “But like I said, having witnesses is important, for Scripture purposes. You’ll need to _see_ this.”

Charlie, whose eyes had been open, gaped at Castiel.

It was _weird_. There was Castiel’s body, standing off to the side in a garage in the middle of nowhere, but surrounding him -- flowing through him? -- were wisps of this amazing, bright-blue light, flowing in interchanging circles around him. Like a cartoon of an atom, only his electrons were solid wheels of energy. It was huge, immense, and it went through both the floor and ceiling. 

Suddenly it moved, and Charlie ducked out of the way, but Castiel’s (arm? Leg? _Wing_?) went right through her harmlessly. Now she was confronted with what sat atop the, uh, wheels: a glowing, bright blue head, comprised of energy like something out of Star Trek, with three faces. One looked like Castiel’s normal one, and that was the one peering at her curiously (several feet away, Cas was peering at her with his physical body too, and that was just weird as hell); to the right of the human face was what Charlie was pretty sure was the head of some sort of parrot, and to the left, a tiger. She made a face.

Sam finally opened his eyes and yelped; Cas turned his real face (the one that looked like Jimmy, anyway) toward Sam for a second; whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, and his true form straightened back up.

Jessie’s voice, when she spoke next, was amused. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure the Goffin’s Cockatoo is why Cas is so different, angel-wise. He’s the only angel with that face, and if you’ve ever dealt with those things you know how curious and smart and fucking _stubborn_ they are. Dad designed ‘em based on Castiel, from what he’s told me. Proud of it, actually.”

Cas sighed in the mortal plane, and Charlie dragged her eyes away from where Castiel’s true form met the ceiling toward his vessel. 

“Wow,” she said. Cas didn’t reply, didn’t really change his expression at all, but he looked pleased nonetheless. 

“Stop showing off,” Jessie chided, coming back around to stand in front of him. She looked apologetic. “This will hurt.”

“I know,” Castiel said, but he also said it with his true form. It shook the ground, screaming, but melodic. Sam thought he might have picked up the strains of a Kansas song his dad had been fond of.

That was the only warning they got before Jessie plunged her hand into Castiel’s chest.

It reminded Sam of when Cas’d soul-checked him; Jessie was buried up to the elbow, her hand almost exiting his body, and while Castiel’s vessel was silent, his true form screamed.

Both Sam and Charlie were frozen to the spot, watching their friend writhe and cringe above his own body, screaming his pain and agony and flashing all the colors of the rainbow.

Charlie’s teeth were grinding; she never could stand to see someone she cared about in pain. Sam ached too; Cas was _family_ , and he was being hurt -- _by his family_. Castiel’s vessel slumped over, kneeling on the ground, and he let out a grunt -- 

It was over as suddenly as it had begun, and there was a brief moment of darkness -- a moment where Sam was scared that Jessie had burned Cas out instead of changing him -- and then his new true form flared to life.

Gold, golden light and song, sounds that reminded him of the sounds Voyager had sent back to earth when it exited the solar system. Metal creaking? He couldn’t even imagine how huge Cas was; where there had been wheels before was a glowing pulsar, emitting flashes of golden light. At the corner of his vision, out a window, Sam could see where there were still wheels intertwining with each other, outside the garage; _really_ far outside the garage, actually, like Jessie had taken Castiel’s true form and _enlarged_ it, stretched it out past what it was supposed to be.

Jessie was crouching next to Cas, her hand on his shoulder, but she was peering upward. “Still a cockatoo,” she muttered.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Charlie said, staring at Castiel’s vessel.

“Yo,” Jessie said, waving. “Did you know that any time someone says that I can sort of hear it?”

“Sorry,” Charlie said, on automatic. She blinked, and Sam blinked, and both of them rushed toward Castiel.

Cas stood up, wobbly, between Charlie and Sam. When he finally reached his feet, Jessie said, quietly, “Praise be Castiel: last angelic archangel and Guardian of Time and Space.”

Cas huffed, and, shakily, pulled his arm off of Charlie’s shoulders. His free hand he now used to give Jessie the finger.

Charlie laughed and slapped him on the back, grinning. “You’re a Time Lord now!”

Jessie turned incredulous eyes back toward Sam. Sam just sighed. 

**\+ + + + +**

_Ely, Nevada_

Dean was a Knight of Hell; he was sensitive to shifts in energy, as much as he hated to admit it.

He looked up from his map, which he’d just finished tinkering with. He didn’t know where, or how, but something was _wrong_. Something wonky had just shifted within the universe, changed the dynamic somehow. 

It didn’t have the taste of Hell, though, so he shrugged it off.

He contemplated the map one last time, and the notes he’d made on it, before nodding, satisfied, and folding it back up. When Hastur got back he’d hand it off to her; she was capable and he sort of trusted her. For a demon.

Speak of the devil. _Hah_.

Hastur walked in; she couldn’t have been gone more than an hour or two, but she’d found a new meatsuit -- much more suited for her needs, and empty besides. Empty hosts meant exorcisms were harder to use, and there was no internal battling for control. They were difficult to find; most hospitals had been blessed at one point or another by a well-meaning man of the cloth. A lot of times you had to hang around someone who was about to die, but wasn’t in a medical facility.

Not that Dean knew anything about possessing anyone; he still had his original meatsuit. But he’d learned, from both his growing army _and_ Crowley, of the difficulties involved in finding a good host.

Her new vessel was outstanding -- gorgeous, even. Dark, lengthy hair, curves in all the right places. She’d even donned something sexy, a little black dress that, if Dean were in the mood for that sort of thing, would have had him salivating. It clung to her like a second skin, almost distracting from the tap-tap-tap of matching stiletto heels as she walked across the floor.

“Better?” she asked, her grin impish. 

“Much better,” he said, approving. 

“Excellent,” she said. Then she handed over a file folder. “We’re moving along in Lincoln Springs, but I just got some intel from our people in Reno from a few days ago that I thought you might want.”

Dean raised his eyebrow and opened the folder. In it were some pictures.

“Those were taken about two days ago,” Hastur informed him. “The three of them visited a tattoo parlor in Reno that our informant’s host works near.”

Dean stared at the picture. In it, Sam, Castiel, and Charlie were standing together; Charlie and Castiel were smiling at each other. Sam looked haggard; that tiny human part of him wondered if the idiot had been eating, but he rolled his eyes and shook the thought off.

“Some inquiries show that the redhead is a recent addition to the team, as far as we can tell,” Hastur continued. 

“I wonder when she got back from Oz,” Dean murmured. Hastur gave him a skeptical look and he shrugged. “Long story.”

“Intel also says that the other man -- Castiel -- is human now.”

 _That_ was interesting. Dean frowned but then shrugged.

“They’re not a threat at the moment,” he said. He closed the folder, setting it on the bar, and then pulled out the map and handed it over to her. “We can deal with them if they start to _be_ a threat, but for the moment they’re busy chasing a cure that doesn’t exist.” He grinned, eyes flashing. “The map has all of my notes for everything else. Pull anyone you need.”

“Right away, my lord,” she said, bowing slightly before disappearing. 

Dean turned back to the bartender. “Keep ‘em coming,” he said, gesturing at a bottle. He pointedly did not open the file folder again.

The bartender began pouring shots.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam was in a _terrible_ mood.

Almost as soon as they’d managed to get Castiel sat down and relaxing, Anna and Gabe had showed up for, as Gabe put it, “New-hire orientation.”

It’d been said a little too enthusiastically and Sam wanted to punch him for it. 

Jessie explained that Cas was going to have a very specific job, that every archangel would (including the future human ones), but that all archangels shared certain duties as well. And that Anna and Gabe were going to take Castiel to teach him about it.

They hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye; Gabe winked, Anna smiled, and they were _gone_.

“He’ll be back,” Charlie said, putting her hand on Sam’s arm. He snorted and shrugged her hand off; she was driving, and she _really_ needed to pay attention to the road. “He will!” she protested. “He _always_ comes back.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, after a few minutes of silence. “He does. But this time is different, Charlie. He’s an _archangel_. He has a job to do.”

“Oh come on, like that’d keep Cas from you guys if you really needed him.” Charlie said, rolling her eyes. “He wants to cure Dean as much as you do, right? He’ll be back; he’s practically in love with the guy.”

This forced a laugh out of Sam; he was glad someone else saw it. Lord knows _Dean_ never had; Cas _mooned_ over his older brother. Yeah, Sam was Castiel’s friend, but the angel would destroy _worlds_ for Dean.

Which, considering Castiel’s newfound powers and Dean’s current status as a Knight of Hell, was kind of terrifying to contemplate, and Sam fell back into silence.

“I’m not sure making Cas an archangel was a good move on Jessie’s part,” Sam said, slowly.

“Tell me about it,” Charlie said. “I’ve read the books.”

“No, I mean,” Sam continued, turning toward her. “I mean, he’s -- I don’t know if he’s _in love_ with Dean, but he, you know, Dean’s like, his focal point. He’s -- fixated? I don’t know if that’s the right word. But he’s focused on Dean pretty hard. And right now? Dean’s a demon. A Knight of Hell, gunning for the throne.”

Charlie shuddered. “If we’re lucky, we’ll cure Dean before he thinks of that one.”

Sam sighed. “Jessie’s the only one who can do that, and she hasn’t brought it up once since the first time I met her.”

Charlie shrugged. “Anyway, Cas has guidance this time. And if Dean does get to him... Jessie can, you know. Take care of it.”

Sam turned and stared at her. “You mean, take Dean out?”

“No!” Charlie exclaimed, turning toward him, shocked. “ _No_ , I meant physically separate them, or maybe depower Dean or Cas long enough to get the situation managed. Jeez!”

Sam and Charlie fell into complete silence then; the only sound was the wind flowing past the Impala. Sam flicked through his phone contacts, thumb hovering over the number for Jessie that she’d programmed in before she shooed them out of her garage, but he didn’t call.

He did, however, open the emergency contact document in his Dropbox, and added Jessie’s number to the list.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam had expected to beat Linda home, but when he and Charlie walked in, she was there with Victor and Kevin, sitting around the table in the main room researching. He needed to remember to never underestimate the power of angry mothers, because apparently getting into the Albuquerque office of vital statistics hadn’t even taken a day.

“Where’s Cas?” Linda asked, looking up from her research, bright-eyed. Kevin and Victor, on the other hand, looked like they hadn’t slept in days; in the corner of the room, both Sam and Charlie could see that two computers were open to the World of Warcraft log-in screen, and they smirked at each other before Charlie answered.

“It’s a long story,” she said, and immediately began launching into the tale. She sat at the table with them and started with a brief rundown of Reno and then the events directly after, although she seemed to be leaving Jessie’s name out entirely. Charlie, apparently, was taking the whole Jesus Christ thing very seriously.

Sam was prepared to sit down and help flesh out the details, but he could hear a ringing coming from the box where he’d stashed Dean’s phones. He blinked for a few seconds before plodding down to his room.

It was Dean’s main phone. And there was absolutely no way the person calling him could be calling. Sam knew, because he’d seen him make the choice not to come back from Purgatory, personally.

“Hello?” he answered, voice harsh.

There was a chuckle. “Well, not the Winchester I was _expectin’_ ,” Benny Lafitte said. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

**\+ + + + +**

Sam feigned exhaustion, went to bed early, and snuck out of the bunker while everyone else was asleep. He left a brief note for Charlie and the others, some excuse, and then he crossed out the excuse because they’d find out. Instead, he just wrote, “Benny called, gone to get him.” Kevin knew who Benny was. He’d explain. Or maybe he wouldn’t. It was hard to tell with the prophet, these days. He _had_ to know about the birth of Castiel as an archangel, and yet he hadn’t said anything.

It was just about four hours to where Benny was. Dean’d told Sam he’d buried rather than burned Benny’s bones, but he hadn’t mentioned that he’d had a moment of crazy and buried them at Stull Cemetery outside of Lawrence. It’d been prettied up since the last time Sam was there, but then again, he didn’t remember a whole lot about it.

He pulled up just after daybreak. Benny was waiting for him.

The vampire silently got into the car and then turned to Sam, seriously. “Not one to pry but... where’s Dean?” he asked.

Sam sighed and turned back toward Lebanon.


	9. Episode Eight - A New Religion

** Episode Eight - A New Religion **

**__** _Every word of every song that he sang was for you_

_In a flash, he was gone_

_It happened so soon -- what could you do?_

_Black Velvet and that little boy’s smile_

_Black Velvet and that slow southern style_

_A new religion that’ll bring you to your knees_

_Black Velvet, if you please_

\--Alannah Myles, “Black Velvet”

_He pulled up just after daybreak. Benny was waiting for him._

_The vampire silently got into the car and then turned to Sam, seriously. “Not one to pry but... where’s Dean?” he asked._

_Sam sighed and turned back toward Lebanon._

**\+ + + + +**

_Cicero, Indiana_

Lisa Braeden’s favorite song in the world was Black Velvet, so when it came up on the radio while she was doing the dishes after dinner, she turned it up.

To this day she couldn’t tell you why she loved the song so much. She supposed it reminded her of an encounter she’d had in her indiscriminate youth, so many years ago. She smiled; certainly the song described Dean Winchester and their wild weekend to a T. She missed him, something that had been happening more and more lately. Her favorite song, paradoxically, made her incredibly sad sometimes. 

She wondered what had ever happened to him. They’d been so young, and he’d run off after that weekend. Nine months later she’d given birth to Ben, but she wasn’t entirely certain whether Ben was his or her boyfriend at the time’s (who’d, understandably, broken things off with her when he found out about her weekend with Dean), so she’d simply put “ _Declines to state_ ” on the birth certificate, where it asked for the father’s name.

Someday, maybe she’d track him down and get a paternity test done. Ben was asking questions, more and more.

She danced around the kitchen as she worked, putting now dry plates away and singing along with the song, off-key. 

Outside, Dean Winchester stood, eyes flickering in the darkness, flashing from black to yellow to red and finally settling on white before clearing up entirely. He watched as Lisa danced to a song she associated with him; watched as Ben came in to ask about something. He was so much bigger than the last time Dean had seen him -- he had to be about fourteen or fifteen now, probably in high school. 

This was stupid, a stupid sentimental thing that the future King of Hell shouldn’t indulge in. Dean sneered and then he was gone. Somewhere, someone was going to get the torture of a lifetime.

Inside her kitchen, Lisa turned the volume down. The song was over.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam was about an hour away from the bunker. He glanced back; Benny was sound asleep, draped under a blanket Sam’d dug up from the trunk to protect him from the sun.

He glanced at his phone and back up to the road, and then back at his phone again. Finally, he picked it up and flicked through his contacts again, hovering over Jessie’s name. Resolutely, he pressed down on it and let the call go through.

“When I said, ‘Call me if you need me,’ I meant at normal hours,” Jessie mumbled, obviously having been asleep.

“It’s 10 in the morning.” Sam was in a contrary mood.

“I _own bars_ ,” Jessie countered. He could hear the sounds of her shifting blankets aside, presumably as she sat up in bed. “What do you want, Winchester?”

“Answers,” he said, shortly. “I’ve got three people who’ve been resurrected, and one vampire. I have a feeling you have something to do with it. Talk.”

She was quiet for a second before delicately saying, “Who?”

“Kevin Tran, Victor Henrickson, and Nancy Fitzgerald,” Sam said. “In that order. And as of last night, Benny Lafitte. Still a vampire, should be in Purgatory. What gives?”

“Hmmm,” Jessie said. She went quiet for a few minutes; Sam’s patience was wearing thin but he wore it out, even when he could hear the sounds of her making coffee -- the coffee grinder was loud as hell.

“Look,” Jessie said. “I need to do some digging but I’ll call you back with an answer,” she said.

“That’s not -- I _know_ you’re involved,” Sam hissed. His eyes darted up to the rear-view mirror, but Benny wasn’t stirring.

“Never doubt it,” Jessie replied. “But I still need some answers myself. I’ll be in touch.” And with that, she hung up.

Sam stared at his phone for a good minute, and then swerved to avoid a sign he almost hit. _That_ woke Benny up, and Sam learned that the vampire wasn’t a morning person as he navigated back to the bunker.

**\+ + + + +**

To Sam’s deep surprise, Jessie was waiting for him at the bunker, arms crossed as she waited at the entrance to the garage. Her car was parked just off to the side. 

“How the hell did you get here so fast?” he demanded. 

She raised her eyebrow, glanced behind him at Benny, who was clambering out of the Impala, and quietly whispered, “Son of God. Comes with some perks.” And then, louder, she approached the vampire. “This Benny?”

“I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance,” Benny said, clearly taken aback. He held out his hand. “Benny Lafitte.”

Jessie shook his hand, lingering a little longer than needed as she took in whatever it was she needed. When she answered, she sounded satisfied. “Jessie Novak. Pleased to meet you, _Mistah_ Lafitte. You a friend of the Winchesters’?”

“Mostly Dean’s,” Benny said, glancing back at Sam in apology. “And Castiel, in a manner of speaking.”

Sam decided not to mention that Castiel had never said anything specifically good about Benny, although he’d not said anything specifically _bad_ either so maybe it was a moot point.

Jessie looked _delighted_. “You two must have _hated_ each other,” she said, grinning. “Such a southern gentleman, not speakin’ ill of people. You, I _like_.”

Benny blinked. “Thank... you?”

Sam snorted and Jessie turned back toward him.

“You gonna invite me in?”

“How did you even know about this place?” Sam demanded. The bunker, which had previously felt safe, felt like _home_ , was suddenly no longer sacrosanct. 

“Oh come _on_ ,” Jessie said, rolling her eyes. “Geographical center of the continental United States? People don’t like to make much of it, but political boundaries have their own sort of power. Of _course_ I know about this place.” She glanced at Benny. “I’ll have to work some magic to let your buddy in, though. Vampires are strictly forbidden, according to the warding the Men of Letters dropped around this place.”

“So are demons, but we got Crowley in,” Sam pointed out, but he was opening the garage with the key to the bunker as he said it.

“Yeah, but he was like half-human when you did it,” Jessie pointed out. Sam glanced at her sharply. “Of _course_ I know about that. What do you think I’ve been doing the last few years? Mostly, Winchester-watching. You guys have been the star of the supernatural telemundo for the last decade or so, what else was there to do?” 

“Cain got in here too,” Sam said, quietly. Jessie stared at him with an incredulousness that made him feel tiny.

“Cain was a _Knight of Hell_ ,” she hissed, glancing toward Benny. “So is _Dean_. You think _anything_ the Men of Letters could ward with could keep one of them out?”

“But...” And Sam stared at her, helplessly. “Abaddon was looking for the _key_.”

“Well, yeah,” Jessie said, shrugging as she straightened up. “It was _locked_. Magically as well as physically. You still need a key to get in, but the wards here can’t keep out a Knight. Speaking of which, you wanna unlock the door?” With that, she walked toward her car and got in, fully prepared to drive into the garage.

Sam unlocked the garage door and let her, with some misgivings. Once inside, she sliced open a finger and began drawing on the wall; when Benny crossed the threshold he reported a tingling but he didn’t expire on sight, and he wasn’t refused entry, so Sam considered it a job well done.

He pulled the Impala in and parked next to her Chevelle, which he was kicking himself for not having recognized at the Roadhouse. Then he got out and stared at the symbols she’d painted on the wall.

Turning, he yanked the chain of the good luck charm to tug it out from under his shirt. “You just put a ward in Old Enochian on this place. I want specifics.”

She sighed and pointed. “It’s just a loophole in the wards, I swear,” she said. Gesturing she translated. “It makes an allowance for exactly one vampire, Benjamin Lafitte; created by Martinus Sergius; lover to Andrea Kormos; friend to Dean Winchester; ally to Castiel, Archangel of the Lord, and Sam Winchester. You’ve gotta be _real_ specific when creating wards in Old Enochian.”

Benny was staring at her. “Who the hell _are_ you?”

Jessie stared at him and smirked, but didn’t answer.

**\+ + + + +**

When the three of them returned upstairs, there was a mild commotion because Benny was supposed to be dead -- apparently Kevin’d seen that in his position as Prophet -- and because Jessie was with them. 

Jessie -- who, it turned out, Kevin and Linda had _already met_. In Reno, when they’d all gone to deal with the Trickster that Anna nixed. 

Linda was flushed and angry; Kevin uncomfortable. Sam got the feeling that the nature of Jessie’s relationship to Kevin had been discussed in that meeting. Although the name she was going by hadn’t been, which Sam supposed excused them from having jumped up and announced that they knew who offed the demons in Reno. Now that he thought of it, neither of them had seen her picture.

“ _Hieu_ ,” Linda said, glaring.

Jessie fidgeted in place and then held her hands up, placating. “I’m going by Jessie these days,” she said, and she seemed just as uncomfortable as the Trans were. 

“See, that’s what I don’t get,” Kevin said. He was glaring now, too. “Obviously you’re not my dad; my dad’s _dead_. So who the hell are you? Or what?”

“The vessel I had back then is dead, yeah,” Jessie said, scratching the back of her head.

There was a brief pause and then Kevin shouted, “You’re an _angel_?”

Sam glanced at Charlie, who kind of whimpered. “She told us not to tell _anyone_!” she exclaimed.

“This was a bad idea,” Jessie said. She looked pained and turned to look at Sam. “You didn’t tell me they were staying here.”

“Of course they are,” Sam said, offended. “They’re _family_.”

“Great,” Victor said. “We’re all Winchesters now. Makes sense, the luck we’re having.”

“Hey, I think getting a second chance at life is _great_ luck,” Jessie interjected. 

“Let’s clear this up right now,” Sam said, drawing Jessie’s attention. “I’d trust anyone in this room with my life, and I think Kevin and Linda have a right to know anyway.”

Jessie glanced at Benny.

“ _Anyone_ ,” Sam stressed.

Jessie sighed and then said, “You’re all going to want to sit down.”

**\+ + + + +**

The aftermath of Jessie’s announcement -- and her reluctant display of a few miracles to convince Benny, Victor, and Kevin -- was very quiet. As in, everyone sort of agreed to depart to their own rooms. Benny, who didn’t have one yet, gave Sam a panicked look and then flew toward the big library. Since he didn’t know where he was running, Sam had to assume he just sort of went anywhere that wasn’t where the Trans or Jessie were.

“I don’t know what he’s worried about,” Jessie mumbled, throwing herself down into one of the chairs in the main room. “I _said_ I liked him.”

Sam lowered himself into the chair opposite her. “Well, Dean said Benny was a good ol’ Southern boy. Could just be that he’s _real_ religious.”

She snorted. “Maybe in his youth, when he was human.”

They were silent for a moment before Sam spoke again.

“You said you’d make a call and tell me what was up with the zombie uprising,” he said. He couldn’t help the accusatory note in his voice.

“I made the call,” she said, nodding. “I know a guy. But he didn’t answer. Still,” and she leaned back further into her chair, lacing her fingers in front of her chest and grinning, “This is good news. For once, you Winchesters, with your habit of endearing yourselves to people? It’s gonna maybe work in our favor a little bit.” She outright beamed at this, and Sam frowned.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

She didn’t answer his question, instead bringing up another one entirely.

“So have you been paying attention to demonic omens and such?” she asked.

He blinked. “No? Why?”

She stared at him, looking faintly disappointed. “Sam, if I had a brother who was currently a Knight of Hell, I _might_ be paying attention to DemonTV. Word on the street is that Dean’s going behind Crowley’s back and raising an army to take over Hell.”

“Jesus,” Sam said. Then, remembering, he stuttered. “I mean -- Uh --”

Jessie laughed. “Trust me, I’m used to it.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Sam asked. “I -- You said you could cure him. I won’t kill him.”

“Couldn’t even if you wanted to,” Jessie said, pointing at him. “You need the Mark of Cain to kill a Knight, remember? And Cain’s dead. Dean couldn’t _transfer_ it if he wanted to. He’s not Cain. That avenue is a no-go. There’s only three beings who can kill Dean, Sam; Dad’s off-planet, if you’ll recall, and Death’s got his own shit going on. And personally? I’m not inclined to kill him unless he really pushes my buttons.”

“What about curing him?” Sam interjected, quickly.

She sighed. “He’s gotta _want_ it,” she said. “I _could_ force him into it, but... I won’t be that person, Sam. It’s like raping someone. You take their choice away, you’re no better than a rapist.”

Sam felt bile rise up in his throat. “How do you compare curing a demon with rape? The two aren’t even remotely the same.”

She looked at him, eyes serious. “How could you _not_? You’re taking someone’s choice away from them. Did you know that _most_ demons prefer taking empty hosts? They remember what it’s like to be human. There’s that _teensy_ bit of humanity left in them.” She held her finger and thumb a centimeter apart, to demonstrate how little humanity she meant. “But it’s enough. I’m hard-coded to respect free will. Now, I’m not an angel. I _could_ ignore it, and I have before. But I won’t violate someone like that. I’ll exorcise and punish and smite, because that’s what I’m supposed to do, but I won’t violate.”

Sam stared at her. “You’re acting like they’re people and not monsters.”

She glared at him. “They _are_. That’s the entire point. Hell, even _monsters_ are people. The ones that get too dangerous, you kill them, and I get that -- that’s what you do with murderers in the human world, too. But just because something isn’t human doesn’t make it inherently evil.”

“That’s the _entire point of demons!_ ” Sam shouted, jumping from his chair. He was shaking in place.

“No, it’s _not!_ ” Jessie exclaimed. She pounded her fist on the table. “Demons have souls, however corrupted and tortured they’ve become; monsters do too, or did Purgatory teach you nothing?” She glared at him until he sat back down. He was still shaking. “Yeah, I get it. You probably don’t like being called a murderer, because you’ve killed monsters that weren’t hurting anyone. You and your brother both have done it, sometimes inadvertently. And yeah, I’m telling you it was wrong.”

She sighed and stood up, started pacing. “You had good intentions, so I’m inclined to forgive you. But you hunters don’t understand -- _all_ life is precious. Eve thinks she created monsters, and she’s close but not ...not quite right. She manipulated monsters, she has a connection to all of them, but they all come from the same stuff -- the same stuff that souls are from. Which my dad created. The wellspring of life is his invention. _All life is sacred_.”

Sam stared at her for a second before he blurted out the first thing in his mind. “So you’re pro-life?”

She stared at him blankly for a second before throwing her head back and laughing, hysterically.

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie calmed down after a few minutes; Sam was honestly surprised that no one, not even Benny, came out to see what was up with the commotion. But he supposed that being confronted with a -- a _deity_ of sorts put everyone off their game. And Kevin and Linda had more reason than anyone else to want to avoid Jessie.

“To answer your question,” Jessie said, sliding back into her chair and putting her hand down on the table. “I am, in fact, pro-choice, which I think was the entire point of this discussion. You can’t force someone to give up their bodily autonomy just to save another life -- which is why I exorcise before smite, if possible. Fetuses don’t even _get_ a soul until like, the _very end_ of the second trimester anyway, so it’d be a moot point unless we were talking third-trimester abortions, and man, those are so _rare_ \--” and then she paused and shrugged. “Sorry. I was a Suffragette in the 20’s. Feminism doesn’t just go away once you’ve learned it.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam muttered.

She huffed and leaned back in her chair again. “Anyway, the original point -- I won’t cure Dean until he wants to be cured. Which I _am_ working on, because I keep my promises.” She grinned. “But until then, we need to try and slow him down. Dean Winchester as the King of Hell would be fearsome, and your absolute worst enemy. He knows _everything_ about you guys.”

“How do we slow him down?” Sam asked. “If you won’t kill him, and I can’t kill him --”

Jessie shook her head, interrupting, and held up a finger. “First of all, I didn’t say I _won’t_ kill him, just that I don’t _want_ to. If it came down to it, I _would_ , and you need to understand that. It’ll be a last resort, but it’s a possibility that you’re going to need to accept if you work with me.”

Sam swallowed, tasting bile again, but he nodded. He got it. Dean might need to get put down. He didn’t like it, but he’d rather that than -- whatever it was Dean would do once he seized control.

“Second, my assistant --”

“Bela,” Sam said. Jessie smirked and nodded.

“Bela,” she acknowledged. “Who is _very_ good at her job, by the way -- got some intel that Dean was starting to set up some places to stage his growing army.”

“Like military bases,” Sam said, eyebrows raising.

“Exactly,” she said, pointing at him and winking. It was a gesture so reminiscent of Dean himself that Sam felt slightly nauseated. “I’m guessing he got the idea from dear old Daddy Winchester.” She scrunched her nose but plowed on. “Anyway, I know the location of one and it seems to be housing a sizeable unit. You could take it out.”

Sam sighed. “Look, almost none of the people here know anything about the hunting world, and I’m not gonna ask the Charlie to do this. She doesn’t have the skillset yet. And frankly, I’m not asking Benny, either. He just got back from Purgatory; I’m not risking sending him there again.” _Just in case Dean --_

Jessie blinked and grinned. “So what you’re saying is that you can’t do it alone and you won’t ask anyone here to help you.”

Sam grimaced. “Right,” he said. “I’m used to having a partner for this sort of shit. Where’s Cas, anyway? An archangel could --”

“Castiel is busy,” Jessie interrupted. She sliced her hand through the air. “Unavailable for the time being, probably at least a week or two, maybe more. Corporate-level orientation for Heaven is a bitch and a half.” She snorted.

He sighed. “I don’t see how I could even _try_ to fix this. Dean’s setting up bases. _There’s nothing I can do about it._ I can’t take care of it alone; even if I could still do my --” and he waved his fingers, jazz-hand style, “demon mind-trick thing, there’s probably too many demons for me to take care of by myself.”

Jessie grinned at him and tipped an imaginary hat. “Howdy, partner.”

Sam groaned.

**\+ + + + +**

_Shreveport, Louisiana_

Dean walked into the bar and ordered a shot -- Black Velvet, why not. He was early, but he figured that Raum was early too. Probably scoping the place out, if they were as smart as they were made out to be.

They’d gotten through the failed apocalypse with all 30 of their legions intact; they were still technically attached to Crowley, as were the thousands of demons under their control, but this demon was powerful. Old. _Smart_. 

Just the kind of commander Dean needed in his army.

Dean also had it on pretty good authority that Raum had a weakness for pretty men. This, Dean was pretty sure, worked in his favor. He still had his old body, and honestly he was no slouch in the looks department. Dean _had_ this.

He’d been there for fifteen minutes, had nursed his way through four drinks that could never hope to intoxicate him, when someone sat next to him. He turned, expecting the vessel Raum had last time Dean had encountered them -- a hot, busty redhead.

Instead, they wore an empty vessel that looked like a Chippendale’s dancer -- just enough muscle to be attractive, but not enough to be threatening, with dark skin and gleaming teeth and dreadlocked hair that trailed neatly behind them in a ponytail. Dean blinked.

“Dean Winchester,” Raum said. Their host’s voice was deep; not Michael Clarke Duncan deep, but an easy baritone that implied the power of the being inside of it. 

“Raum,” Dean said, smiling. 

“I hear you’re stirring the pot,” Raum replied, holding their finger up at the bartender to signal their attention. After placing an order for a scotch, they turned back toward Dean. “This did not end well for Abaddon, if I recall; what makes you think you can steal the throne from Crowley?”

Dean grinned. “Well, for one, Crowley had _me_ on his side back then. Ever wonder who offed Abaddon?” He pulled up his shirtsleeve and displayed the Mark. 

Raum’s eyes widened. Dean’s grin widened, turned into something more suggestive and flirtatious.

“If I can kill Abaddon, what makes you think I can’t kill Crowley?” he asked, smoothly. Turning on his barstool, he reached toward Raum, placing his right hand -- the hand attached to the mark -- on Raum’s wrist. Let the power flow from the Mark. Let them _feel_ it.

Raum’s expression shifted. “I don’t doubt that you can,” they said, practically _purred_ , and inside, Dean cheered.

He _had_ this.

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie took off, promising to come back the next morning and declining the offer to stay in the bunker overnight. Sam got the idea that Kevin unnerved her.

After she left, everyone drifted out slowly; Benny first, because he’d been able to hear her leave, but after him, Charlie, then Victor, then Linda, and finally, Kevin.

Victor offered to drive into Smith Center, the nearest town to Lebanon (which was godawful tiny) with restaurants and pick up something to eat, since none of them were feeling up to cooking, and Sam silently handed him the keys to the Impala. He’d be gone for about an hour.

Sam filled that hour with Charlie, setting up a room for Benny. They also discussed cleaning up and preparing the rest of the rooms at some point, which Sam thought was a good idea -- since people seemed determined to resurrect themselves somehow, he figured the bunker was about to become the Winchester Home for Wayward Souls. Charlie thought this was a great name and Sam had to talk her out of making or ordering a sign.

Having rooms free would be good in case Jody showed up, or any of their other hunting contacts. Sam tentatively approved the idea, mentioning he’d be leaving in the morning to take care of something with Jessie.

“And let me guess,” Charlie said, frowning, as they walked back into the main room; Victor’d just returned and announced, loudly, that everyone needed to _come get their damn food_. “I don’t get to go.”

“I kind of need you here,” Sam said. “It isn’t safe where I’m going, yeah, but I _really_ need you to figure out how to get some donated blood here for Benny.” He sighed. “I should have thought of that first. He hasn’t attacked any of us, which is a huge restraint on his part.”

“Aw, he _does_ care,” Benny drawled, from where he was sitting at the table. He had his feet propped up, and was reading some obscure Men of Letters book about vampires. 

“Hospitals ditch their just-expired stuff all the time,” Charlie said, sliding into the chair her laptop was in front of. “I have some contacts, I could snag some. Might take a day or two, though.”

“That’d be mighty nice,” Benny admitted, closing the book and removing his feet from the table. He sat up and regarded all of the humans around the table in turn: Charlie and Sam, Linda and Kevin, and Victor. “I saw y’all got a bit of a dungeon going on downstairs. I think I should probably lock m’self up down there until the blood gets here.” He swallowed and looked away. “Just in case.”

“ _Why_ do we have a dungeon?” Victor asked, like he expected not to be answered.

Linda made a sort of angry noise and slammed her fist down onto the table; everyone jumped, and the books and assorted electronics littering the table shifted. Everyone turned to look at her; she looked annoyed.

“We’ve got medical equipment up the wazoo here, right?” Linda demanded. She held out her hand, toward Charlie and Sam. “I can spare a pint. Used to donate all the time.” She glared. “ _No one_ in this bunker’s going hungry, vampire or not.”

There was a silence and then Victor added, “Yeah, I can donate a pint to a pointy-toothed bastard in need, too.” He was grinning as he said it, to take the sting out of his words, but they were apparently genuinely meant because he began rolling up his sleeve. 

Benny looked shocked when Sam turned to him. “How long would that keep you going?”

The vampire exhaled, shakily, and then tried to steady his voice to say, “The fresher it is, the better; two fresh pints’d keep me good for a week or two. Much thanks.” And he finally chanced a glance toward Victor and Linda.

“Let’s get one thing straight here,” Linda said, glaring at everyone in the room. “We’re all here because we’re family. Everyone that gets brought here. I _don’t_ let family starve. We get a werewolf, I’ll drive right into Hastings to pick up pig organs. We get a vampire, I’ll donate some blood.” She swallowed. “I lost my son. I got him back, but I lost him. I’m not losing anyone else.”

“Here, here,” Sam said, quietly. He stood up. “I’ll just -- go get the stuff.”

He hated to admit, even to himself, that his blood probably wouldn’t do anything for Benny, infected as it was. Still, he didn’t know that he’d donate it even if he could, and that part of himself? Scared him more than the actual demonic part.

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie insisted on taking her Chevelle when she appeared the next morning, and it was with some reluctance that Sam handed the keys to the Impala over to Charlie. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Charlie, it was that taking a trip to hunt some demons in a car other than the Impala felt -- _wrong_.

"Don't worry," Charlie said, rolling her eyes. "I'll be _really_ careful. Wouldn't wanna piss off the future King of Hell."

Sam clenched his jaw, but didn't say anything in response.

Jessie and Sam drove off at about 10 a.m. They'd been driving for about an hour before it occurred to Sam to ask where the hell they were going.

"Lincoln Springs, Missouri," she said, smiling. Then she sped up, the Chevelle rumbling beneath them. 

Sam sighed. Lincoln Springs was six more hours out at the earliest. 

The Chevelle wasn't as roomy as the Impala.

He sighed again and tried to stretch his feet out in front of him.

**\+ + + + +**

Lincoln Springs was just as desolate as the last time Sam was here -- with a pang, he realized it was when Crowley'd killed Meg.

They'd never even told Castiel. He'd just _known_. And Cas, being Cas, had never thought to blame the Winchesters for her death. Despite that, Sam felt guilt over it. Meg shouldn't have died, shouldn't have had to sacrifice herself for the Winchesters and the angel she'd fallen in love with.

One more sin to add to the list of Crowley's. Sam would be keeping track for when he inevitably shanked the demon.

About halfway through town, on the way to the motel Jessie had booked for them, she turned the volume down and started talking. It took a second for Sam to focus on her voice.

"Bela says Dean set up a hidey-hole on the outskirts of town. Abandoned factory or something. Almost no one in sight, cuz the whole area crumbled at the beginning of the recession. Perfect spot for it, and no one's spotted them as of yet."

"Why _here_?" Sam asked. Jessie shrugged.

"It's Dean Winchester. Who the fuck knows?"

"I should," Sam interjected. He sighed. "I should, but I _don't_."

Jessie seemed to understand that any comment to this would be a wrong one, and just turned the music back up.

**\+ + + + +**

The motel was a step up from most of the Winchester abodes. Sam commented on it and Jessie rolled her eyes.

"First, I'm pretty comfortable as far as money goes. Two, I have a sense of class. Three, those hellholes you guys sleep in? I'm amazed you haven't picked up syphilis just from _laying on the beds_. Just because I can heal that shit doesn't mean I want to catch it in the first place. Well, second place. Once was enough."

Sam raised an eyebrow but Jessie didn’t seem inclined to reply, instead focusing on creating Old Enochian wards in the room.

“There we go,” Jessie said, satisfied, crossing her arms and examining her work. “Remind me to get rid of this before we take off because otherwise management is going to be _very_ confused about why they can’t rent out room 33 because no one can get in.”

Sam snorted and sat on his bed. “So, when are we doing this?”

“Recon tonight,” Jessie said, pointing at him as she crossed the room to flop onto _her_ bed. “I trust Bela, more than she even knows, but I need to put eyes on the place myself. Then tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, we’ll get into the place and check it out.”

Sam tried not to grimace at the idea of staying in Lincoln Springs for more than one day, but even he saw the value in a well-planned, well-executed operation. 

After all, they were going up against Dean.

“In that case,” Sam said, sighing and rolling over to face the wall. “I’m gonna get some sleep. Wake me up when you want to leave.”

“Sure thing, short stuff,” Jessie said, distractedly fiddling with the TV remote. As Sam drifted off he could hear Dr. Sexy, MD playing in the background, and he found it just a little bit disturbing how similar Dean and the Son of God were.

**\+ + + + +**

It was dark, but not only did Sam have excellent night vision, he was hunting with a partner who had access to funds and equipment -- something most hunters lacked.

So the two of them were across the street from the deserted warehouse, peering at the place with high-end military ops binoculars.

“Wow,” Sam whispered, pulling them away from his face and staring at them in awe. “Where did you get these?”

“I know a guy,” Jessie said, shrugging. “Look, there’s a thermal infrared setting. Neat thing, demons burn hotter than humans do, so they show up different. Vampires run colder, too.”

Sam raised his eyebrow but flicked the infrared setting on. True to Jessie’s word, the building seemed to be filled with figures -- all burning bright yellow.

“Humans tend to be red or orange, cuz they’re colder than demons,” Jessie said, and Sam could hear her putting her binoculars back up to her eyes. “Demons run around, uh, probably standard is about 120 degrees Fahrenheit, hotter if they’re more powerful and colder if they’re new demons. Vampires are outright purple, cuz they’re a pretty standard 72 degrees. Angels, by the way, go off the chart and just sort of blind you, so don’t try to use these around angels.”

“What would happen if I looked at _you_ with them?” Sam asked, curious.

Jessie snickered. “I’m _human_. I’d be orange. My grace doesn’t exist within me, but in a different plane entirely, which is why I can get away with hiding in plain sight. Otherwise every supernatural being on the planet would be able to tell I wasn’t your average Joe the minute they looked at me.”

Sam shuddered, wondering what they saw when they looked at him. But instead of saying something, they went back to gathering information.

Later that night, around 3 a.m., they snagged some take-out from a late-night diner and retreated back to the safety of their motel room. Around burgers, they exchanged their information -- it was quite the insight. Jessie seemed to be less interested in the actual _number_ of demons (which was what Sam was interested in; there seemed to be around 70 or 80 of them there, most not appearing specifically powerful but inhabiting large, physically strong meatsuits), but rather what _areas of the building_ they tended to inhabit the most. She’d located three entrances they seemed interested in grouping around, probably guarding, and one back room where many of them appeared to be congregating -- protecting something? Maybe. 

Additionally, they’d both noticed that a group of around five to ten demons patrolled the grounds at any given time. The groups seemed to switch out at hourly intervals, so that no one particular demon was over-worked for watch duty; this held for the inside groups as well. There had been a delivery received while they were watching; it appeared to be weaponry of some sort, but what type, neither of them could tell. 

“We don’t know if the patrols continue during the day, and if they’re at a higher frequency than at night, or a lower one,” Jessie said, frowning, before shoving a frankly disgusting amount of fries into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“We could scan before we go in tomorrow,” Sam said.

Jessie shook her head, chewing carefully and swallowing before she answered. “It’s June. In Missouri. Temperature in direct sunlight is going to get warm enough to fuck with the infrared readings; if we’re lucky we might be able to tell if someone’s _car_ is running hot. I’ve got a bit of magic I can work to give us a general idea of what we’re dealing with but it might give us away, and I’m not sure if I’m okay with that or not.”

“Why?” Sam asked, frowning. “Can’t you take them out if you need to?”

“Sure,” Jessie said, shrugging. “But empty vessels are hard to come by. Chances are most of those demons in there are possessing _someone_ , and I don’t want to kill ‘em if I don’t have to. I could do a mass exorcism and trap them all in the building and get rid of them that way, but once again, these are mostly human souls we’re dealing with. _Corrupted_ , but human.” She sighed and shoved the last bit of her burger away from her. “I don’t like killing things if I don’t have to.”

“What the hell was it we’re here to do again?” Sam asked, pointedly.

She sighed again. “I _know_. I was kind of hoping I could figure out a way to offer a cure, but I always offer demons a cure if given a chance and none of them have taken me up on it as of yet. _Five thousand years_ I’ve been trying, by the way.”

Sam blinked.

“I can go back and relive time periods,” Jessie said, grinning. “I mean, there’s a ‘real time’ point, which is right now, and I can’t go beyond that, but I can go back and forth throughout the _past_. So I’ve added some years on. Look pretty good for five thousand and seventy two years old, if I do say so myself.”

Sam snorted and they got back to figuring out what the hell they were gonna do.

It was almost dawn before they both settled on a plan they agreed on, and then they collapsed onto their beds, attempting to get some rest before they began the beginnings of their rebellion against Dean Winchester.

**\+ + + + +**

_Ely, Nevada_

Dean’d just sat down to a burger and a beer when Hastur approached him, her heels clicking on the floor. She slid another folder in front of him.

“Raum’s forces have quietly stationed themselves around the Gates, as you asked,” she said. “I saw to it myself.”

“Good,” Dean said, nodding. “Do we have eyes on Crowley?”

She shook her head. “I think he’s spooked. He’s not at the Throne, and we’re not sure he’s in Hell at all, but he definitely isn’t in the Throne Room, nor is he at any of his clubs or usual haunts. His favorite Hellhound is missing, too.”

“Huh.” Dean replied. He shrugged and went back to his burger.

“There’s something else,” Hastur said. She set a photo atop the folder. “Sam Winchester and another woman were spotted in Lincoln Springs this afternoon, checking into a motel about three miles from our outpost there.”

Dean smiled. “Awesome.” He set his burger down and examined the photo -- it was in color, and while he didn’t see the face of the woman he was with, her hair was neon purple. They were both talking across the top of a cherry-red Chevelle SS, probably the ‘69 if Dean didn’t miss his mark. It was a nice car, and he remembered it briefly from one of the two encounters he’d had with the woman.

So Jessie had her claws in Sam for real? That was... good. That was good. They’d be occupied while he took care of business. Best for Sam to stay out of the way right now; he didn’t need that kind of distraction.

“We’ll move up the timeframe, then,” Dean said. “With no one of real power left in charge of Hell and Sam busy with the spooks, we can do this tomorrow.”

Hastur blinked. “Tomorrow?”

Dean nodded. “Tomorrow. That’s when they’ll attack, if I know Sam. They probably spent today casing the joint, maybe asking around town about the place. Gathering intel. Sam can function on four hours, but he works better on eight, and if they’re gonna take on 80-odd demons he’s gonna want to get a full eight hours of sleep, so they’ll attack tomorrow, probably around noon, would be my guess.”

“Do we want to coordinate with them, then?” Hastur asked, confused. “Keep an eye on the place and go when they do?”

Dean tipped his beer back and swallowed a gulp before answering. “Nah, noon, Missouri time. That’s when we’ll hit it.” He grinned and his eyes flashed -- white, black, yellow, red. “This time tomorrow, I’ll be King of Hell.”

Hastur smiled.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam peered out at the clearing the warehouse was located in; it was bright, blindingly so, in the late morning, sun gleaming off the rooftop like it might off a blade. 

“I make out... seven guards patrolling,” Jessie said. 

“Six geese-a-laying,” Sam muttered, reaching for the back of his belt and procuring Ruby’s knife. Jessie snorted but just pocketed her binoculars. She didn’t reach for any weapons; according to her, one of her many powers was the ability to bless any item and turn it into a holy weapon, akin to an angel blade, so she didn’t _need_ one.

It was quick work, dispatching the guards; Jessie looked sad at every demon she smote, although Sam noticed that of the seven guards, three got the smiting treatment and two were exorcised before being wiped from existence.

The other two, Sam took care of with the knife.

In under ten minutes, the primary obstacle standing between them and their prey had been eliminated. Sam honestly hadn’t expected it to go so easily, but he was starting to get that Jessie, for all her talk about the sacredness of life, had a pretty grey set of morals. 

“Alright,” Jessie stage-whispered to him as they crept up on the warehouse. “Main goal, clear out the demons. Secondary goal, figure out what’s in the back room.”

“What if it’s just where they like to play poker or something?” Sam wondered aloud.

Jessie shrugged. “Then we just take out the demons. I can do them all at once if needed, but then we’ll need to hightail it out of town ASAP because that’s gonna draw some noses in our direction, so -- last resort.”

“And you don’t want to kill them,” Sam said, grimacing.

She sighed. “No, I don’t, but hey. Want in one hand, shit in the other.”

Sam snorted, and then he stood to his full height, squaring his shoulders, before he kicked in the door.

Eighty or so demons turned to stare at the two of them, their frames silhouetted by the daylight streaming in around them. Jessie grinned and stepped forward, snagging a length of chain from atop a barrel, abandoned sometime when the warehouse had been an active factory, and swinging it at her side.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and beings of alternative gender,” she announced, grinning. “This is Sam Winchester, and y’all can call me Jessie.” She swung the chain in a wider arc, sending a wave of gold light flickering through each link. “Who wants to go first?”

**\+ + + + +**

While Sam had to admit that Jessie’d had a great first line, the time for talking quickly passed. Within a few minutes it became obvious that they were deeply outgunned -- Sam was pretty sure at least two of his ribs were broken, and Jessie had blood dripping into her eyes. 

Sam wasn’t sure if it was hers or someone else’s.

He was just about to call it quits and tell Jessie she’d need to go to their last resort when time _stopped_.

Not literally, just figuratively. When someone walked into their midst from outside, apparently having heard the commotion, and smiled. The demons near Sam turned to look at what he was staring at; apparently, they knew _exactly_ who this was, because they froze in place, too.

“Hey, Sammy,” Meg said, smirking. She brandished an angel blade. “Looks like you could use some help.”

With that, she turned and plunged her angel blade into the heart of the nearest demon. It flickered, slowly sliding to the ground and off of her knife, and she sprung into action.

Sam had never actually seen Meg fight for real before, and he didn’t have a chance now, because suddenly the demons surrounding him were fighting doubly hard, trying their damndest to get at him. He jabbed with Ruby’s knife, slicing the face of one and making it hiss and recoil, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a flask of holy water and throwing the contents at the demon to his left. 

Meg waded her way into the fray, dodging blows and killing with impunity, joining he and Jessie at the center of the room. The three of them squared off against a minor army, surrounded.

“Wow, you Winchesters sure know how to pick your battles,” Meg said, wryly. She flipped the blade in her hand, expertly. 

“I have questions,” Sam said. A demon rushed at him and he got the dude with a well-placed thrust of Ruby’s knife, circling around and leaving his back exposed. Jessie had him, though, smiting the demon that thought to take him out from behind.

“ _So_ many questions,” he repeated, watching as Meg took out another two. They were down to about forty-ish demons now, but all of them were pressed against the three of them, pinning them into place.

“Friend of yours, I take it?” Jessie said, glancing at Meg. Her eyes slid appreciatively up and down Meg’s meatsuit.

“ _Now is not the time to flirt_ ,” Sam stated, dodging an attack with a knife. 

“It’s _always_ the time to flirt, Sammy,” Meg said, smirking. She turned back toward the horde; it was at this point that Sam noticed she was _covered_ in dirt.

Jessie’d found, _somewhere_ , a long-handled push broom and quickly snapped the head off, turning the thing into a sharp-pointed spear and spinning it around in her hand to get the feel of it. It glowed gold as she did so, tracing an intricate pattern in the air before coming to rest at her side. 

Sam had to admit, she knew how to handle her chosen weapon.

After another few sustained minutes of fighting -- Sam and Meg actually worked well together in a fight, while Jessie was more of a lone agent, but still good at guarding people’s backs -- it became obvious that some of the weaker demons were still physically capable of dealing out some damage. Sam’d gotten a pretty healthy slash to the leg, and both Meg and Jessie were limping.

“If I clear a path,” Jessie said, quietly, “Can you get your friend out of the blast zone?”

“Depends,” Sam said, sluggishly throwing himself out of the way of another combatant. “What’s the blast zone?”

“The warehouse, maybe a little bit more,” Jessie said. She sounded like she was admitting something, but Sam didn’t see a problem with it.

“Yeah, I got it,” Sam said. Without asking, he swung Meg up into a fireman’s carry, ignoring her vehement protests, and watched as Jessie managed to fight her way through the demons, clearing out a path for the two of them.

“Run! _Now_!” Jessie shouted, dodging a punch and plunging her hand to the ground. Waves of light were rippling around her, and Sam wasted no time in barreling out of the place at full speed, despite the wound to his leg.

They’d just managed to clear the doors when he heard it; heeding Jessie’s warning, he kept running.

Still, the explosion managed to knock him off his feet, throwing him and Meg to the ground; the demon let out an exasperated-sounding _oof_ on contact, but otherwise seemed okay.

“I can walk on my own just fine, Winchester,” she complained, pulling herself up and then standing, dusting herself off. “Also, what the hell was _that_?”

“That,” Sam said, eyeballing the warehouse, “Was Jessie. Taking out all of the demons in the building. Hence the haste to get you out.”

“How sweet of you,” Meg sneered. “It _almost_ makes up for how you never even came back for my meatsuit.”

**\+ + + + +**

It was several minutes before Sam would even consider chancing walking back into the warehouse, but by the time he’d worked up his nerve, Jessie stumbled out. 

She beelined for the car, parked just out of sight among the trees. “C’mon, we’ve gotta get the _hell_ out of here,” she said. She was clutching her side but alive, and Sam counted that as a win.

Meg stared after her, then glanced back at Sam. “I _like_ her. You should keep her around,” she said. Whistling a jaunty sort of tune, she twirled her angel blade in her fingers and followed Jessie.

“What even is my life,” Sam complained to the clearing. He heard the car start up and bolted after it; he liked Jessie well enough, but he didn’t trust her not to leave him abandoned in the middle of nowhere.

**\+ + + + +**

The ride back to the motel room to pick up their things was tense and slightly awkward and Jessie started it.

She glanced at Meg, who’d claimed shotgun and was idly playing with a piece of fuzz on her jacket, and then glanced back at Sam. “Let me guess. She was dead, too.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, shortly. Then: “Crowley’s work.”

“That fucker,” Meg said, conversationally.

“I’m aware,” Jessie said, wryly. The story was cut short by their arrival at the motel; packing took less than five minutes and on her way out of the room, Jessie remembered to erase the Old Enochian from the door.

They piled into the car and then, just as suddenly, they were in front of the Bunker.

“I usually prefer to drive,” Jessie explained, still clutching her side and turning an alarming shade of white. “But time was not on our side.”

“I _really_ like your friend,” Meg said, enthusiastically.

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie did what she could to clean them up and make them look less-alarming to the inhabitants of the bunker. She was rapidly on her way to unconsciousness, though, so Sam just pointedly asked her to add Meg to the list of supernatural creatures allowed in the Bunker, figuring that another figure covered in dirt and blood was probably the last of everyone’s concerns.

This was difficult, because Meg refused to give her true name or any of her connections, and finally Jessie just sighed and asked Meg to draw out her demonic sigil. This Meg did with a great degree of suspicion, but whatever she gave Jessie worked; Meg was allowed into the bunker’s garage with little to no complaint from the wards, and the three of them stumbled into the main room.

“Holy crap!” Charlie exclaimed, shooting upright. She immediately ran to Sam’s side to help him, but changed course when Jessie wobbled on her feet and collapsed.

In Sam’s absence the crew at the Bunker had began the process of readying rooms for occupancy, which was a good thing, because the first order of business was to revive Jessie long enough for a shower and some patching up, and then putting her to bed. Next was getting Meg to do the same thing, which she refused to do for a frankly ridiculous period of time before finally admitting that some rest might be nice. 

Finally, Linda sat down next to a freshly-bathed Sam and stitched up the wound in his leg, not even wincing at the gore. Victor actually knew how to set ribs from his time with the FBI, and so he took care of that, and Charlie carefully wrapped - not _super_ -tight, so that Sam could still breathe - a large Ace bandage around his lower ribcage so that the ribs were less likely to shift.

And then he, too, fell asleep. Unlike Meg and Jessie, however, he passed out right there on one of the library couches, and no one had the heart to wake him. When he woke up five hours later, alert and aware, he had a stiff neck and had been covered up with a spare blanket. 

**\+ + + + +**

When Sam went looking for her, Jessie was in the kitchen, absolutely _devouring_ two boxes worth of Kraft Mac ‘n’ Cheese, which she’d mixed cans of tuna and peas into.

Sam made a disgusted face at her and Jessie waved her fork right back, cheeks bulging. “Hey, I expended a lot of energy yesterday. This has _carbs_ , it has _vegetable matter_ , it has _protein_. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

He maintained the wrinkled nose as he sat across from her at the counter. “What do you mean, expended a lot of energy? You’re the Son of God. Shouldn’t you be like -- I dunno, almost _limitless_?”

Jessie sighed and set her fork down; her mixing bowl was still half-full but she’d apparently decided to take a break. She rinsed her current mouthful down with a swig of Coke before turning fully toward Sam.

“I’ve taken a lot of pains to hide who and what I am, Sam. That includes hiding most of my power, even from myself. Drawing on it can be difficult unless I completely break the protections I set up, and frankly, all hell would break loose. Supernatural noses would turn in my direction all over the _universe_ ; we’d be overrun with angels and demons, and pretty much anything that wanted to try and gain my power for themselves as well.” She sighed and picked her fork back up. “It’s why Gabriel was able to masquerade as an Old God for so long, too -- we basically shove our grace into a pocket universe that follows us around. Breaking the boundaries of that pocket universe is noisy, magically speaking, and our grace draws those sensitive to it toward us.” She paused and then said, “Which is why I’m going to ask, again, that you not tell anyone who or what I am. It’s kind of important.” Sam nodded, and Jessie began to eat again.

They were quiet while Jessie finished her meal, and then she got up to wash the dishes she’d used to make and eat it, setting them in the rack to dry gently before sitting back down. In the middle of this, Charlie stumbled in, yawning, and dug through a cupboard, producing a pack of S’more’s Pop-Tarts.

“Midnight snack,” she said, plopping herself at the last of the three stools that lined the counter. Sam surmised that this had, at some point, been a baking station and the people relegated to producing bread got to sit down while they kneaded. It was the only explanation for the setup, even though they never used it for such, because no one was really interested in baking. Even Dean’d only ever baked pies, and he did it at the normal counter.

“So,” Charlie said, gesturing at Jessie, who’d sat back down at the counter and was watching the two of them with what appeared to be deep amusement. “People keep resurrecting themselves, and you’re bringing angels back to life. You know something. _Talk_.”

Jessie looked surprised, an expression Sam assumed was on his face, too. He wanted to know, for sure, but he’d not have dared be so direct. There was still a tiny part of him that was awed by what Jessie was, _who_ she was, and he’d been -- not content, but _resigned_ at least, to waiting for her to provide the information. That Charlie had bothered to ask surprised him.

Jessie surprised him by _answering_.

“When I made the deal with Dad, I made a deal to restore balance. That means a lot of different things,” she said, twining her fingers behind her head and leaning back. “It means restoring balance to Heaven, yeah, but also on Earth and in Hell. So Death got involved.”

“Death? _The_ Death?” Sam stuttered.

Jessie sort of shrugged. “We go way back. He’s probably seen me more than any being on the planet, even more than you guys. I can’t be properly reaped but he usually shows up. We have poker third Thursday of every month with a few of the Old Gods. They’re convinced I’m one of his Reapers.” She chuckled. “He’s one of Dad’s brothers, so he’s actually my uncle, if you wanna get technical about it.”

Charlie stared at her like she was insane, but Jessie plowed on.

“Death is, by nature, is a creature of balance and neutrality. This whole Apocalypse deal upset the balance, and the events that followed did it even more. He craves balance, and so we made a deal, too -- to start bringing back some of the humans that weren’t supposed to die.”

“Bobby?” Sam interjected, hopefully.

Jessie shook her head, slowly. “No. Bobby Singer actually lived a lot longer than he was supposed to, to be honest, and while bringing him back wouldn’t exactly upset the balance, he wasn’t one of the ones we agreed on. I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam sighed, his shoulders falling, and Charlie put her hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

“No, just specific humans that weren’t supposed to die. I mean, I can resurrect an angel, and if I can get to a human fast enough I can keep their soul from being reaped; hell, if I can get my hands on their soul I can resurrect them myself. But I _can’t_ enter Heaven.” Jessie shrugged, a wry grin spreading across her face. “That’s where Death came in. He agreed to bring back twenty people who were supposed to live, and gave me five -- I guess you’d call them ‘get out of jail free’ tokens. If I need five people resurrected in the future, I can get them, as long as it doesn’t upset the balance too much.”

“But Benny’s not a human,” Sam said. “Neither is Meg.”

Jessie pointed to him and winked. “I know. That’s why I said what I did the other day -- you Winchesters and your knack for endearing yourselves to beings is coming in handy. See, Death is true neutral -- everything dies eventually. Except me, I guess. So for every person I brought back, he brought back someone from the other side.”

Sam made a sound of alarm and Jessie waved him quiet. “Calm down. No one big. No Liliths or Azazels. Just a demon or a vampire here or there. But he didn’t specify that they were on the losing side, just that they were the ‘other side.’ Which gives him leeway to bring back people like Benny and Meg. It doesn’t specifically have to be people who were against you, just people who aren’t human. Although....” And she pondered. “We never specified he couldn’t bring _humans_ back, either, so...”

She shrugged, continuing after a swallow of Coke. “That’s not to say that every person from the other side he brings back is going to be someone who fought for your side, but it means you might get some more useful allies out of this deal, which is kinda cool.”

They were all quiet for a minute before Charlie quietly asked, “Who else is he bringing back?”

Jessie shrugged. “I don’t know. And that’s entirely up to him. He has my list, but I didn’t get his.” She finished her Coke and tossed the can into the garbage before turning toward the both of them with serious eyes. “This means one of two things -- be grateful, or be very, _very_ worried.”


	10. Episode Nine - Sad But True

** Episode Nine - Sad But True **

**__** _Hate -- I’m your hate!_

_I’m your hate when you want love_

_Pay -- Pay the price_

_Pay, for nothing’s fair_

_Hey -- I’m your life_

_I’m the one who took you there_

_Hey -- I’m your life_

_And I no longer care_

_I’m your dream, make you real_

_I’m your eyes when you must steal_

_I’m your pain when you can’t feel_

_I’m your truth, telling lies_

_I’m your reason, alibis_

_I’m inside, open your eyes_

_I’m you!_

_Sad but true_

\--Metallica, “ _Sad But True_ ”

_“You Winchesters and your knack for endearing yourselves to beings is coming in handy. See, Death is true neutral -- everyone dies eventually. So for every person I brought back, he brought back someone from the other side. No one big. No Lilith’s or Azazels. Just a demon or a vampire here or there. But he didn’t specify that they were on the losing side, just that they were the ‘other side.’ Which gives him leeway to bring back people like Benny and Meg. Technically, they’re not human, so he can bring them back.”_

_Jessie shrugged, continuing after a swallow of Coke. “That’s not to say that every person from the other side he brings back is going to be someone who fought for your side, but it means you might get some more useful allies out of this deal, which is kinda cool.”_

_They were all quiet for a minute before Charlie quietly asked, “Who else is he bringing back?”_

_Jessie shrugged. “I don’t know. And that’s entirely up to him. He has my list, but I didn’t get his.” She finished her Coke and tossed the can into the garbage before turning toward the both of them with serious eyes. “This means one of two things -- be grateful, or be very, **very** worried.”_

**\+ + + + +**

The takeover of hell was quick and painless. For the most part.

With Crowley AWOL, and Hastur and Raum leading the rebellion, most every demon surrendered. Those that didn’t were swiftly dispatched, and less than an hour later -- Hell time, not topside -- Dean sat himself down on the Throne. He relaxed into it, feeling the Throne itself adjust to accommodate him, and sighed happily.

“Enjoying the new perks, sire?” Raum asked, eyeing Dean up and down. Dean smirked back at them, eyes glowing white.

“Long live the King,” he replied. Raum, Hastur, and the hordes of Hell bowed at his words. Their weapons of choice, ranging from flails and swords to guns and machetes, glistened with imagined viscera.

“Long live the King,” they repeated. The landscaped changed; Hell had accepted a new ruler.

**\+ + + + +**

_Lebanon, Kansas_

Jessie shot up in bed, heart pounding.

She’d expended a lot of her easily-available energy in the days previous and had to go through all of her usual methods of nourishment; spiritually, magically, and bodily. This included sleep.

But sleep could be interrupted by sensations: a loud sound like a car backfiring, or a pat on the shoulder, or the smell of food.

Or in the case of someone sensitive to the very fabric of space and time, a new King ascending to the throne of Hell.

Jessie shivered.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam looked up as Jessie stumbled into the main room. It was well past noon; he’d been worried that she’d sleep for another 24 hours, after she’d explained the draining, but it seemed a more normal eight or nine did the trick. Then he did a double-take; he’d never seen her look so ill.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, standing up. Charlie, Kevin, Benny, and Victor looked over; Linda seemed determined to ignore Jessie, and Meg was in the library.

“It’s done,” Jessie whispered, trembling as she leaned against the door frame. “The throne has fallen; Hell has a new master.”

There was a loud thump as Charlie dropped the book she’d been holding.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked, urgent, rushing to her side and helping her stand upright. He barely knew Jessie, but he’d never seen her so shaken.

“I _felt_ it,” she said. “A psychic shockwave, kinda. Heaven can confirm; Castiel, Gabriel, and Anna already know, I’m sure.”

Sam helped her to the chair he’d abandoned; everyone was staring at her and she shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. Finally, Kevin took action -- he grabbed a bottle of bourbon and a glass from the cabinet, and poured Jessie a tall drink. He immediately returned to his seat, seeking to be as far away from the woman who was actually his father as possible.

“You really _are_ a Winchester,” she said, somewhat fondly, as she tossed the entire thing back. The alcohol seemed to loosen the tension and fear that she’d been radiating, and incrementally the entire room calmed down, even though they’d remained mostly silent the entire time.

“Guys,” Charlie said, timidly. “Not to be Debbie Downer here, but what the hell are we gonna _do_?”

Sam swallowed and steeled himself before responding: “We’ll have to take him down,” he said, swallowing again as the words briefly stuck in his throat.

“That’s a little extreme, ain’t it?” Benny said. He was pale by nature, being a vampire, but he seemed to have developed an actual death pallor at the news.

“It’s a reality we might have to face,” Victor said. He looked disturbed too, but not nearly as disturbed as everyone else -- which Sam forgave, since up until pretty recently, in Victor’s eyes, he’d been viewing the two of them as serial killers.

“I’m not killing Dean,” Charlie said, jutting out her chin.

“I’m not really for it either,” Kevin said, crossing his arms and slumping back in his chair. “I mean, Dean’s not my best friend but you two have saved my life enough times -- although you know, you also got me _killed_ so there’s that -- that I don’t really approve of just _offing_ the dude.”

Linda’s mouth tightened but remained closed; she didn’t say a word.

Jessie, however, _did_. Her color had somewhat restored after the bourbon, and assuming she had a higher tolerance than any of them, Sam poured another for her as she spoke, sliding it toward her.

“ _None_ of you can take him out; I’d have to do it. But I don’t know that it’ll be necessary,” she said. This was done in a considering manner, pondering; like she was mentally examining a Rubix cube and trying to see it from all angles at once.

“He’s the King of Hell,” Linda said. Her tone was begrudging; she didn’t like talking to Jessie, that much was obvious.

“Yeah, I know,” Jessie said. “But like I told Sam, I’ve been working on Dean the last few weeks, ever since Sam first approached me about curing him.” She eyed him. “I won’t do it against his will, but I think there’s just enough human left in him that he’s got doubts about himself. He’s been sport-killing --”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Victor interjected.

“Excuse me, _Son of God_. Don’t interrupt,” Jessie said, pointing sternly at him. Victor didn’t look at all chastened.

“You can’t use that as an excuse every time you don’t like what we have to say,” Victor replied.

“Just listen, alright? He’s been sport-killing, but it’s not your usual fare. Demons, those who’ve endured centuries upon centuries of torture and had most of humanity snuffed out of them, they’re usually attracted to innocents for sport-killing: children, honest believers, heroes -- mostly firefighters, by the way.”

“And Dean’s not?” Sam asked. The idea of Dean killing children sickened him.

“No,” Jessie said, shaking her head. “He’s going after the worst of the worst. Pedophiles, rapists, murderers, Enron-types that gambled away people’s life savings. _Bad_ people. Some of it was in legitimate service to Hell: he gathered up a whole horde of pedophiles whose contracts were due last time I saw him. But a lot of it was for his own amusement; he wanted to kill, the Mark and his own nature drives him to it, but he’s seeking out _bad people_.”

“Is that good?” Sam asked.

Jessie frowned. “I still don’t _like_ it, but it’s a sign that he’s still got a conscience. A human side.”

“What does that mean for Dean?” Benny asked. His voice was shaking.

Jessie smiled, slowly. “It means,” she said, “that it’s _working_.”

**\+ + + + +**

Crowley hated going into hiding, hated it with a passion usually reserved for angels and Winchesters. The fact that he related the two wasn’t incidental; every time he’d had to go into hiding had been because of one of those two things, and he was just about done with it all. 

His current hidey-hole was a property he happened to own, via a shell company, in Kansas, suspiciously near Lebanon. He figured Dean wanted pretty much nothing to do with his brother right now, and so, sadly, in the grand scheme of things, keeping close tabs on the younger Winchester was probably the safest place he could be right now. Putting the last touches on a few spells his dear old mum taught him before she’d disappeared, he gathered everything to him, thankful he’d had a powerful witch for a mother. He instructed his hellhound to guard the place in his absence; it settled down in front of his chair like a normal dog might.

A blink of an eye later and he was staring at the face of the bunker. His full demonic powers had been restored to him, so it was inaccessible to him at the moment, as he hadn’t been summoned nor had he been led in half-human, but everything seemed to be in order; there were no signs that anyone had left recently. Still, he distributed the hex bags around the property, setting up a quiet ward that would alert him if anyone crossed it.

Reassured that everything was as it was supposed to be in Winchester-land and satisfied with a job well done, Crowley blinked himself away to his favorite place in the continental United States: New York City. Going into hiding didn’t mean he couldn’t take in a little culture, and he was technically still a wealthy being, which meant a new suit, dinner, and a show wasn’t something he couldn’t indulge in.

He appeared in an alleyway, because as a general rule they were only ever populated by the clinically insane; this was proven true as he scared the shit out of a homeless man crouched near a dumpster. 

“Word to the wise,” he informed him. “Don’t mention this to anyone. They won’t believe you anyway.” And with that, he began whistling to himself, heading toward the main roadway.

He’d just reached the sidewalk when destiny -- or something approaching it -- very literally plowed into him at full speed.

It was a woman, with red hair, fleeing pursuers. Crowley gleaned several things in several seconds: one, her pursuers were hunters, if the plaid was anything to go by. That and the holy water and silver daggers.

Two, the woman doing the fleeing was a witch, power emanating from her that even the psi-null had to sense.

Three, he _knew her_.

She turned toward him, ready to curse, and his suspicions were confirmed.

“ _Mother_?” he asked, blinking in astonishment.

**\+ + + + +**

Everyone _would_ have fallen into a stereotypical restless behavior pattern -- Sam would research obsessively, Benny would pace, Kevin would try to tap into his Prophet powers and see what was going on, which nearly always led to a bloody nose because he tried too damn hard and, as Jessie had tried to explain, he didn’t get _control_ over them -- he simply saw what he needed to see, as a prophet. Linda would obsessively neaten up and clean and berate everyone for being slobs, Victor would silently clean up everything she pointed out but _didn’t_ clean to satiate his inner neat-freak, and Charlie would go on an online shopping spree and wind up with entirely too many Harry Potter hand puppets.

But there was _actual work_ to be done, even if it didn’t relate to Dean taking over Hell. Jessie informed them about an hour after the announcement that someone had placed hex bags around the property, a silent alarm system of sorts, to alert someone of their comings and goings, so she and Meg worked to neutralize them. Then Meg and Benny, who struck up a fast friendship over their status as the only non-humans allowed in the bunker, took off in one of the antique cars to pick up the first of the blood shipments Charlie had facilitated. They’d be gone most of the day, which was why Meg even needed to go in the first place -- Benny couldn’t drive and be covered up in a blanket the entire time.

Then Linda and Sam powwowed and decided that the human contingent needed supplies too -- Victor hadn’t expected to feed a near-literal squad of people for more than a few days and hadn’t picked up nearly enough last time. He’d also neglected to remember that there were people in the bunker now who bled once a month, and so Charlie paid off the Costco trip from last time using one of her many accounts scattered throughout the world and gave Sam the Costco Amex, advising him to max it out and informing him that she preferred Tampax Pearl regular size.

“Things I didn’t really need to know,” Sam muttered, rolling his eyes, and she hit him in the shoulder playfully before producing a near-identical ID to the one she’d made Victor. Linda promised to remember her tampon preferences, and then checked with Jessie and even called Meg -- on one of the many burner phones that Sam had produced for her to use until they could get something more permanent set up. For now, the burner phone’s number had been added to the Dropbox document.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Jessie said, incredulous. “I stopped that shit the _moment_ I took this vessel. Menstruation is the _worst part_ of being in a female body, outside of the whole oppressed minority thing. Fuck that. I don’t know _what_ Dad was on when he made _that_ shit up.”

Meg, on the other hand, just laughed and hung up the phone. 

“Get some pads, just in case,” was Jessie’s advice. Some demons could stop menstruation, she said, but she didn’t know if Meg was one of them.

The list also included toilet paper, paper towels, more dishes because they were starting to run low as their numbers grew, and a massive list of nonperishable foodstuffs, toiletries, and cleaning supplies. 

“How are we going to manage this all in one trip?” Sam asked, helplessly. 

“Rent a U-haul,” Charlie said, shrugging. She handed over another Charlie Bradbury credit card, this one a Visa. “We need it, and it’s better to stockpile it as often as possible. It’s not like we don’t have the space.” She sort of hunched in on herself, and then muttered: “Look, we don’t know who placed that barrier. It could have been _Dean_. We might wind up under siege at some point. I’d be happy if we did _weekly_ Costco runs, stocked up so we could be safe for years if needed. I can get the money from Donald Trump; he’s announced he’s running for president and I’d _really_ like to steal from him.”

“Heh,” Jessie said, from her position at the table. She had her legs crossed and propped up on it, fingers linked behind her head. “I bet he’s _really_ pissed about the same-sex marriage thing, huh?”

Charlie swung around to look at her. “Same-sex marriage thing?”

Jessie blinked. “You have alerts set up for hunting activity but not news alerts for a cause you’re _actively a part of?_ The supreme court legalized it, nationwide, today.”

“ _What_?” Charlie screeched, turning toward her computer. Sam blinked; Charlie was lost to them now, making little whimpering noises and apparently trying not to cry.

“‘Bout damn time, too,” Jessie said, sitting up in her seat. “The whole anti-queer thing that’s been carried out in my name has been annoying me for _millenia_. Anyway,” and she swung back toward Sam and Linda, ignoring the tears streaming down Charlie’s face as she began reading news stories. “Costco trip? Can I make requests? I have a few. You guys severely lack Coca-Cola products around here.”

There was a pause, and then --

“I can drive a U-haul,” Linda said, grinning. Sam edged away from her; the idea of driving a large truck seemed to please her a little bit too much.

So Sam and Linda headed off toward Omaha in the Impala, leaving Charlie, Kevin, Jessie, and Victor in charge of the bunker with strict instructions not to blow anything up.

“Like you could stop me if I wanted to,” Jessie countered.

“We have the Spear of Destiny,” Sam replied. “Does that do anything to you? Please tell me that does something to you.”

“Nope,” Jessie said, smirking. “C’mon, you love me.”

Sam made a face at her, and he and Linda took off in the Impala.

**\+ + + + +**

Everything was quiet for approximately ten seconds before Charlie made another exclamation and began furiously typing away at her computer. 

“What are you doing?” Kevin asked, peering at her.

“I am hacking every realm in World of Warcraft and turning it _super-gay_ ,” Charlie said, a demonic light in her eyes. “ _Every. Single. Realm_. I’ve had this skin ready to roll for like _two years;_ I’m not letting it go to waste. Blizzard won’t know what _hit_ ‘em.”

“Wow,” Kevin said, staring at her computer in awe. “That’s... um, impressive.”

“I’m not gonna log in and find my mage decked out in rainbow robes, am I?” Victor asked, a pained look on his face. “I did an awful lot of raiding for what he’s wearing. Please don’t fuck it up.”

“Oh, no, it won’t affect the characters, just the realms,” Charlie said. Then she looked up slowly. “Wait, you play WoW?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kevin said. “I tried to convince him to start a new ‘toon but he’s _really_ set on his mage. My tank needs a healer. Raiding with him _sucks_ ,” and this was said with a sort of sour look.

“I play a healer,” Charlie said, slowly. Then her entire face lit up. “Oh my _god_ , you guys are still playing on Blizzard’s servers, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah?” Victor said, frowning at her.

“Oh my god, _no_ , you two need to come to my custom server. I can ‘port your ‘toons over, I have a custom UI, I made custom UI addons that come _default_ , I even made it so you can _change the voices_ ,” she said, cackling happily and opening another screen. “I have one that makes goblins sound like Patrick Stewart.”

“Seriously?” Kevin asked, awed.

“ _Seriously_ ,” Charlie said. Then she instructed them to get their computers so she could send them the link to download the UI that would plug them into her server. “We’re gonna do a realm-wide event for Gay Day,” she announced. “I can ‘port you guys over and unleash my secret WoW project I’ve been working on.”

Victor eyed her, warily.

“I have created,” Charlie announced, grinning. “A _four-person mount_.”

“Are you _fucking kidding me_ ,” Kevin said, dashing toward his room for his laptop. Victor wasn’t far behind.

Jessie quirked her eyebrow at Charlie, who grinned and then opened the control panel for her custom server, preparing to record a video to announce the realm event.

She got Kevin and Victor set up on her server and autocratically levelled them up to be able to keep pace with her. “If we’re gonna quest together you gotta roll with my level,” she informed them. Then she opened the video recorder.

“Uh...Charlie,” Kevin said, paling. “How many people play on your server?”

“I dunno, ten, fifteen thousand?,” Charlie said, shrugging. “I only invite people I know won’t rat me out, although I’ve given the other admins the ability to invite too, so maybe more? Since this is technically illegal and all, I try to keep it on the D-L. Anyway, shut up, I have an announcement to make.” She straightened her shoulders, brushed out her hair with her fingers, and then hit “record.”

Kevin and Victor stared at her, stunned.

“Yo, bitches and other other-gendered fuckers,” Charlie said, winking at the camera. “It’s Gay Day! To celebrate, we’re having a realm-wide, two-day event. Details of the quest are coming to you now. If you want to participate, look for your group, gather your guilds, and get this shit together, because you aren’t gonna _believe_ what you can win for this one. And it’s a _big_ one. Someone better invest in Rockstar and Monster cuz _you’re gonna need it_.”

She sent it to every player on the server, and then the three of them began clicking with their mouses in earnest, finding their way to each other to begin the quest.

They were so engrossed in their computers that none of them noticed Jessie slipping out the front door, smiling to herself.

**\+ + + + +**

Dean figured that taking over Hell and installing himself as King to the Throne was worthy of a celebration, so he let the others celebrate in Hell and took a trip topside, hitting up one of his favorite bars in the world -- a little place just outside of Vegas, where the women were topless, the men didn’t ask questions, and the drinks were always just right.

He installed himself in a private booth and ordered top-shelf whiskey, a bottle of it and a single shotglass, and ordered a lap dance. Why the hell not? He had inherited a lot of Crowley’s assets, he had money, and he might as well live it up.

The lap dance didn’t quite do it for him, but hell, the girl was enthusiastic even if she wasn’t his type, and he tipped her for a job well done. A part of him _really_ enjoyed the fact that he was spending Crowley’s money on strippers. 

The whiskey did little more than slide into his gullet -- he’d had a hell of an alcohol tolerance _before_ acquiring a demonically-enforced one. Eventually, he switched to tequila and found that the salt burned just enough to add spice and fuck him up a little bit.

The staff had picked up, in the way that service industry personnel around the world could, on the fact that he didn’t particularly want company unless he asked for it, and he tipped well, so they left him alone until the moment he signalled for a refill. He was enjoying himself, alone.

So he was surprised when someone slid into his booth, and even more surprised when he looked up to discover that it was _her_ \-- Jessie.

“Slick,” she said, nodding. “Distracting us with Lincoln Springs while you did the takeover. Very smooth. Congratulations, by the way.”

He stared at her. “I thought you wanted to _cure_ me,” he said, with a sneer.

“I do,” she said, shrugging. “Doesn’t mean I can’t congratulate you for out-maneuvering me. Well-played, I should’ve seen it coming.”

“There’s nothing to cure,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said, rolling her eyes. Without asking permission, she took a swig off his bottle of tequila, nodding in appreciation at the quality. “I mean, there’s no way a Knight of Hell would seek out anything _other_ than innocents to kill and torment, right?”

Dean went stock-still, and Jessie leaned forward, placing her arm on the table in front of her and grinning.

“Yes, Dean, I know what it is you do in your spare time. Still a hunter at heart, I guess. Some habits are hard to kick. Like smoking, only probably more therapeutic.”

“That’s none of your damn business,” he snarled, snatching the bottle of tequila away from her when she went to reach for it again.

“Literally _everything_ in the world is my business, it’s the reason I was created,” Jessie replied. Which made no goddamn sense to Dean. “I could take you now, you know,” she continued, casually. “Take you and lock you up somewhere until you wanted to agree.”

“You and what army?” Dean scoffed. Jessie leaned forward and tapped his wrist, letting him get a brief sense of -- power. Immense, _incredible_ power. He reeled back and she grinned.

“I don’t _need_ an army to capture you, Dean. I mean, _finding_ you can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but _getting_ you wouldn’t be hard. But like I said -- you’ve gotta _want_ it, or I won’t do it.” She shrugged. “I don’t have a lot of hard-and-fast rules but that’s one of ‘em. Lucky you.” She stood. “Like I said, offer’s on the table. I can make you human again. It’s always possible.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” he spat. She laughed, tossed a few bills on the table to cover her purloined tequila, and made to leave. Before she did so, she turned and addressed him one last time.

“You _always_ have the choice, Dean Winchester. But I’d make that choice soon. Your destiny isn’t this, and if you go down this road, the people you pretend not to give a shit about anymore -- Sam, Charlie, Castiel -- will suffer for it. Hell, they might even _die_ for it. Think on that.”

And with those final parting words, she left, plunging into the crowd and losing herself in it. 

Dean pushed the tequila away. He didn’t feel like celebrating anymore. 

“Check,” he said, gruffly.

**\+ + + + +**

Meg and Benny got back first, quietly unloading the blood into a freezer in the medical room, purchased specifically for that purpose a few days prior. It was expired but frozen -- it would keep for months at a time if needed, even if it would lose its efficacy slowly. Benny would just have to feed from it more often, which he didn’t seem to mind.

They’d just finished that task when Sam and Linda returned; Sam was driving the Impala, which was crammed with the more delicate items they’d purchased like dishes, as well as a surprising amount of linens; apparently Linda had decided that the bedclothes the bunker had to offer weren’t _good enough_.

Linda was driving a 26-foot U-haul truck which was crammed to the gills with enough supplies to feed and supply a small army; including a bevy of new mattresses, since the ones in the Bunker sucked. Charlie took one look at this and enthusiastically endorsed the idea of replacing _every bed_ in the bunker with a fresh, clean, new mattress, on Donald Trump’s dime. Sam groaned; that would necessitate another trip to Costco in the near future, because there were a _lot_ of bedrooms in the bunker.

“Hey,” she said, reaching up and punching him lightly in the shoulder. “People keep coming back and _we keep housing them_. It’s a good idea to have _all_ of the rooms set up and ready to go. Hell, we should even number them, to keep track in emergencies.”

Sam grimley admitted the intelligence behind this, and the rest of the day was spent ordering number plates for the rooms -- Victor said he’d install them -- and figuring out what each room needed to get up to Charlie’s exacting standards. The night was closing in, but they figured they’d pretty much cleaned the Omaha Costco out of mattresses and a good chunk of their linens and pillows, so Charlie and Linda made plans to hit up each of the four located in the greater Kansas City, Missouri area the next day, and began preparing for that trip. Charlie also hacked her Costco account and raised the limit, simultaneously paying off the staggering amount Linda and Sam had put on it today.

“You could have just cleared that off,” Sam pointed out.

“Yeah, but stealing money from Donald Trump has always been like, a life goal of mine,” Charlie said, breezily. And then: “Also, Costco is like the one company in the US that doesn’t make it a point to screw over its employees, so I’m paying them for _everything_ we take.”

“Ethical hacking,” Jessie said, peering over the Charlie’s shoulder. “Official heavenly approval, right here.”

“Fair enough,” Sam said, shrugging. This was a massive undertaking, and he wasn’t entirely sure the 26-foot U-haul could manage the shopping expedition in one trip; after all, the bunker had nearly a hundred bedrooms tucked within its walls; they’d discovered another bloc of them just the week previous.

They’d just finished an early dinner when Kevin went eerily silent and then Sam’s phone began to ring.

He recognized the number as that of Nancy Fitzgerald, now Nancy McDonald, and he answered it, keeping his eyes on Kevin the whole time.

“Hi, Nancy,” Sam said, carefully. “Settling into Albuquerque nicely?”

“Yes, it’s very lovely,” she said. “I have this wonderful gorgeous house with a pool and a hot tub, and I get the paper delivery every morning. None of my neighbors are demons or shifters. It’s very...normal.”

“Is that a problem?” Sam asked, genuinely curious. Some people just couldn’t go back to their lives after encountering the supernatural.

“No, it’s great,” she said. Then she paused and continued, more timidly, “It’s only that I get the newspaper every day, and I’m noticing some things.”

“Like what?” Sam said, standing up straight. 

“People drowning. In the desert. Nowhere near any bodies of water,” she said. “There’ve been five so far, and people are starting to get suspicious. This is...this is _your_ kind of thing, right?”

Sam sighed and sat down at the table, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “Sounds like it, yeah. Give me as many details as you can. I know some hunters that live down there, really competent, and I’ll call them and have them deal with it.”

“Oh good,” she said. She began reciting the facts that she could, everything she’d learned from the newspaper and the little bit of investigating that she’d done, both at the library and the police station -- apparently, she’d applied to work as an intern at the local paper, which allowed her to conduct interviews. 

“Really weird,” Sam said, frowning as he looked at the mess of information she’d just handed him. “I’m gonna call those hunters up, Nancy, but try and keep yourself safe.”

“I will,” she said, her voice quivering slightly. They hung up, and that’s when Kevin spoke up.

“It’s water phoenixes,” he said. “We’re not supposed to be there; your hunter friends will take care of the problem, but they’ll need an angel blade.”

“So we overnight an angel blade to Nancy,” Charlie said, jumping in. “She can pass it off to the hunters.”

Sam groaned; he’d wanted to keep Nancy out of this life, because she so desperately desired it. But as Charlie began making preparations for an overnight UPS delivery online, Sam began searching for one of their spare angel blades.

It was honestly the best option they had. 

Once he’d found one, Sam called up Jenny and Jeff, the hunting couple he knew that operated out of New Mexico, and gave them the situation. They’d head out the next afternoon. Then he called Nancy and told her to expect a package to hand over to the hunters. She didn’t seem upset by this, agreeing to inform and facilitate but wanting nothing whatsoever to do with actual hunting. 

Everything set, Jessie took the package to the nearest FedEx location in Hastings, because she was the only one of them who could do so instantaneously and not miss them by closing. She offered to take it straight to Albuquerque but Sam didn’t think Nancy was ready to handle meeting the actual Son of God. Jessie was back five minutes later, looking completely unperturbed.

She was hiding something, though. Sam didn’t know how he could tell, but he could tell -- the Son of God had secrets, and she wasn’t sharing.

**\+ + + + +**

Crowley was not happy.

Not only had he not gotten his new suit, but his mother -- possibly his fourth-least favorite being in existence, after Castiel and the Winchesters -- was now ensconced in his rather comfortable hidey-hole and was trying to befriend his hellhound.

“Who’s a pretty boy, yes, who’s a pretty boy,” Rowena said, tickling under the hellhound’s chin. The creature, traitor that it was, preened under the attention. He missed his old dog, the one the tallest Winchester had so brashly slaughtered.

Her Scottish brogue was even more intolerable now that Crowley’d had several centuries to train himself out of it, for the most part, and he wanted to slit her throat. Now, _that_ was an idea.

“So, Fergus,” she said, and he wrinkled his nose; he’d always hated how she pronounced his name. “What did you sell your soul for?”

“That,” he said, “is none of your business.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Cannot a mother take an interest in her son?”

Crowley glared at her. “You abandoned me. I rather think you lost the rights to motherly interest three centuries ago.”

“There comes a time in every child’s life when he must leave his home and begin to grow as an adult,” Rowena said, trying for breeziness.

“I was _eight_ ,” Crowley said, slamming a glass of scotch down on the table. It shattered and Rowena jumped. “Luckily, the little bit of magic you taught me -- my only inheritance, as it were -- attracted the attention of the Queen of Hell, and when she died, I took her place.”

“King of Hell?” Rowena asked, smiling outright. “Oh Fergus, that’s _wonderful_. I always knew you had it in you --”

“Crowley. The name is _Crowley_ ,” he interrupted. Waving a hand, he restored his scotch glass and poured himself another stiff drink. “And recently deposed, I’m afraid. A Knight has risen.” This was said rather bitterly, and Rowena made several connections in her head.

She’d been out of the game for quite a while, for sure, but she kept abreast of the supernatural grapevine. Word on the street was that the King of Hell had been recovering from an addiction -- to human blood. Word on the street was _also_ that Dean Winchester, of the infamous brothers Winchester, hunting duo that had stopped the Apocalypse, had recently -- what was the term they’d used? Ah, yes. _Gone darkside_.

“Oh, no, that won’t do,” Rowena said, practically purring. She stood up from the cushy armchair she’d been lounging in. “That won’t do at all, now, will it, Fergus?” she said. She refused to use any other name for her son -- the rightful King.

“Not much to do about it,” Crowley said, rather morosely. He took a rather large swig of his drink.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, coming to his side and sliding down, resting on the backs of her feet. “There’s plenty to do of it. I haven’t been idle these last few centuries, and your dear old mum has some tricks up her sleeves still.”

Crowley raised his eyebrow and Rowena smiled. “Why be King of Hell when you could have Earth, too?”

**\+ + + + +**

The various residents of the bunker had begun turning in for the night, with the exception of Charlie, Kevin, and Victor. As a mage and least-helpful at this part of the quest, Victor had actually driven to Smith Center, which had a grocery store that sold real groceries, and picked up an entire case of Rockstar. By the time he got back, the mage was needed, and the three of them had plans to stay up nearly all night on this realm event. 

Sam and Linda had retired early, exhausted from their Costco trip, and Benny did too, leaving Meg and Jessie -- both of whom needed very little sleep -- alone in the library. 

“Have we met before?” Jessie asked, raising her eyebrow. She’d been sifting through the library trying to find the Spear of Destiny Sam claimed they had, but had eventually found a tome on Christian magic that fascinated her and plopped down into an armchair. But something -- or rather, some _one_ \-- had been distracting her.

“I dunno, maybe,” Meg said, expression guarded. “You ever party with Azazel?”

“The demon?” Jessie snorted. “Hell, no. I haven’t got a beef with demons in general, but Azazel I had a problem with.”

Meg’s expression went closed. “Well, he was the closest thing I had to a father. So if you had a problem with him, you probably had a problem with me.”

“I never met him,” Jessie said, shrugging. “Just had a problem with him. Sort of anti-apocalypse, you know?”

Meg sort of half-shrugged one shoulder and returned to her book, some gaudy romance she’d found somewhere. Even though she seemed more guarded now, every now and then she’d laugh at some physical impossibility the author had described; Jessie found herself amused, and eventually they moved to one of the couches to tear the book to shreds, verbally.

“This is worse than Twilight,” Meg said, laughing. She’d loosened up a little, and Jessie got that same sense of familiarity that she’d felt before.

“Truly, an accomplishment,” Jessie said, dryly. “Although I would like to point out that, in her defense, Stephenie Meyers never wrote actual sex scenes.”

“Well, it was supposed to be a teen romance,” Meg replied, rolling her eyes. 

“Yeah, but how much of that do you think was actually her desired audience, versus her inability to write erotica?” Jessie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Touché,” Meg said, smirking, and the two of them went back to finding the worst passages from the book the could find and dramatically re-enacting them.

Jessie didn’t even know why she did it -- if asked later she’d deny understanding of what made her push in that direction. But she leaned a little too close while going to turn a page, and she could feel Meg’s breath brushing across her lips (hint of sulfur, hint of the pizza they’d had for dinner, hint of mint chewing gum) and she turned and kissed her.

They both froze, stuck in one place, and Jessie went to move back, knowing she’d crossed a line, but Meg grabbed her shoulders and kissed _back_ and --

Well, Jessie wasn’t against making out like teenagers on a couch, and besides, she sort of _liked_ the taste of sulfur. 

Meg kissed like she talked -- harsh, biting, and wonderful. Jessie’s lips would be bruised for days if she couldn’t heal fast. In her defense, she was no slouch in the kissing department, having had roughly five thousand years to perfect her technique, and it didn’t take too terribly long for Meg to melt in her arms. 

It didn’t even really occur to either of them what was actually happening, just going with the flow really, until there was a cough from the doorway. Jessie blinked and managed to tear herself away from Meg, looking up and seeing Charlie standing in the doorway, an amused look on her face.

“I’m not against everyone getting a little nookie, especially on Gay Day,” she said, pointing at them. Jessie blinked and realized that Meg had her hands halfway down Jessie’s pants, and Jessie’d shoved her hand up Meg’s shirt, and they were lying prone on the couch in the middle of the library. The romance novel that had started the whole thing was lying, discarded, off to the side of the couch.

“So why are you cock-blocking?” Meg demanded. She made an aborted twitch with her fingers and Jessie shuddered. 

“Because I have to sit on that couch,” Charlie said. “Also because Sam just got a case of the midnight munchies and is up and about and probably about to walk in here, so I figured maybe you should, you know. Head back to your room. Which is probably the right place for shit like this.” She winked and waltzed away, and Jessie blinked and looked down at Meg.

“Your place or mine?” Meg asked, impishly, and Jessie laughed. They sorted themselves out, leaving the library immaculate, and headed toward the room Jessie’d been staying in.

It was like they’d never been interrupted. The moment Jessie closed the door Meg was on her, pressing her against the wood grain, pinning her arms up over her head, and Jessie let out something resembling a moan before, with her hips, encouraging Meg to head toward the bed. 

Jessie didn’t dress in layers, not like Meg, and she took particular pleasure in peeling the demon out of hers; first a leather jacket that still bore minute traces of dirt, and then a blouse that revealed a camisole and a plain cream bra. She’d just taken the other woman’s nipple into her mouth when she was hit again with the sense of familiarity -- that she’d done this before, with this particular person.

Meg groaned, and then plucked at Jessie’s own tank top; Jessie obligingly sat upright and pulled it off over her head, unlatching her much more interesting, neon-pink bra as almost an afterthought.

The two of them seemed to come to an unspoken agreement that disrobing was a good idea at this point, and there was a flurry of activity as pants, underwear, and shoes were discarded. The two of them fell back into bed -- thank everything that Linda had chosen to buy new mattresses today -- and Jessie began what she felt was a pretty thorough exploration of Meg’s borrowed body.

She found herself using tricks she’d learned millennia ago, in her first life, and experienced another sense of déjà vu before shrugging it off. Meg was making noises that were -- well, _unholy_. Jessie sort of wanted to get down to business -- and make her make more of those noises.

She kissed her way down Meg’s body, taking time to nip at the demon’s hipbones and leave sucking bruises there, which made the other woman gasp and shudder. She nibbled at the demon’s inner thighs, something that had made another woman shake in place so long ago, and Meg did not fail to deliver, goosebumps breaking out along her skin.

“For the love of fuck, just _get on with it_ ,” she managed to get out, grasping at Jessie’s hair and pulling -- hard. Jessie laughed and obliged; after all, she was basically created to do man’s bidding, and Meg was no fallen angel.

Spreading the demon’s legs, Jessie dipped down, tracing her tongue lightly around the labia majora, teasing, and garnering another fierce hair-grab, before she spread those too and let herself have a taste.

Demons were different than humans, even though they came of them. Where a human woman might have taste of musk, or salt and sweat, Meg tasted like just-lit candles. Jessie didn’t particularly mind -- this wasn’t her first rodeo round with a demon -- and she traced a light figure eight around Meg’s clit, before pushing harder and upward with the flat of her tongue. She knew exactly how the human body had been designed; knew how the clitoral nerves extended all throughout the vagina and down into the anus; knew _exactly_ how to handle this kind of genitalia. Meg cried out, the heels of her feet banging into Jessie’s back, and she smiled.

A moment’s consideration, and Jessie magically discarded of the acrylic nails she’d been wearing for weeks. Now that her fingertips were unencumbered, she felt free to slide them, slowly, inside of the demon, pressing upward in time with the long, hard strokes of her tongue.

“Holy fuck,” Meg managed, and Jessie nearly laughed aloud at how right the demon was. But she knew from personal experience that between a woman’s legs was not the appropriate time to burst into laughter, and she simply continued her ministrations until Meg was shaking apart beneath her. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Meg exclaimed, muscles clenching, her pelvis moving almost involuntarily as she shuddered. Like a prayer, because Jessie heard it ping at the edge of her senses, along with the the general feeling of someone whiting out.

It was so familiar. So fucking _familiar_ , like she’d been down this path before, like she _knew_ her --

And then Meg was propping herself up on her elbows and grinning back at Jessie wickedly.

“I don’t know what you are,” she said, pulling Jessie up and meeting her in a kiss, tasting herself in the process. Then she pulled back. “But I get the idea you don’t sleep much normally. Which means we’ve got all night.”

“That’s a fair assessment,” Jessie admitted. Meg’s grin got even wider.

“That’s the thing about a girl meatsuit,” she said. “Multiple orgasms.”

“You,” Jessie said, laying the demon back down in her bed. She kissed her again, a short one; she could feel Meg sneaking her hands downward, fingers digging toward Jessie’s own clit, and she shivered. “You, I like.”

“You damn well better,” Meg said, and then they were off again.

**\+ + + + +**

The next morning, Jessie informed Sam that she needed to go back to the Roadhouse and take care of some things. What, she didn’t say, but Sam got the feeling it was Important Things.

“You should come with,” Jessie said, casually, crunching through another bite of Capn’ Crunch. “I have more amulets for nearly everyone here, kinda important with the King of Hell being your brother.”

“Dibs on shotgun,” Meg said, pointing at Sam with her spoon.

“No way, I get shotgun,” Charlie said. “You drive with Jessie.”

Jessie raised her eyebrow. “Hey, who said anything about driving? I have a lot of shit to do today, maybe I wanna fl -- teleport.”

Meg raised her eyebrow.

“Seriously, though, I need to get back to the Roadhouse,” Jessie said. “Gabe contacted me this morning -- some people showed up and apparently they know you.”

Sam froze.

“Good or bad?” he asked.

Jessie shrugged. “I didn’t get any details, just that they’re old friends of yours. He’s busy, and only told me because Gemma asked him to contact me, since I’m not answering my phone.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s totally soft on her.”

“First time for everything,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, he went soft on you guys,” Jessie said, finishing her cereal with a smack and taking the bowl and spoon to the sink to rinse it out. “And Kali.”

“Mostly Kali,” Sam pointed out, and Jessie shrugged.

“So are we driving or teleporting?” Meg asked. 

“Dude, the Roadhouse is a state and a half away,” Charlie said. “We should totally teleport.”

Sam sighed.

**\+ + + + +**

They teleported. Or rather, once Jessie decided it was time to go, the four of them -- Jessie, Meg, Sam, and Charlie -- found themselves standing outside of the Roadhouse, the Chevelle and Impala next to them.

“ _Rude_ ,” Charlie said. “I could have been peeing.”

“You weren’t,” Jessie said. She glanced toward Meg, who didn’t seem even slightly fazed by the instant transit, despite the fact that there was a toothbrush in her mouth. The demon spat the toothpaste out and threw the toothbrush to the side and turned to Jessie.

“You owe me a new toothbrush,” she said, through the foam, and stalked toward the bar. “And I need a glass of water to rinse my mouth out. You better own this bar.”

“I do,” Jessie said, trailing after her.

Sam eyed the two of them. “Do you ever get the feeling --”

“Best not to go down that road,” Charlie interrupted him, brightly, before following the other two into the bar.

**\+ + + + +**

There was a brief mix-up where Gemma -- apparently a hunter -- pulled a shotgun on Meg before Jessie walked in and informed her that it was okay, Meg was cool. And then everything went to shit because --

Well, there stood Ash and Pamela. Whole, and alive. Pamela even had normal, seeing eyes. And _they_ hadn’t put their knives away.

“Holy fuck!” Charlie shouted, ducking out of the way when Pamela launched one toward Meg. It hit Meg in the shoulder and she frowned, looking down and pulling it out.

“ _Rude_ ,” Meg said, toothpaste still surrounding her mouth. 

“What the fuck,” Sam said.

“It’s a _demon_ , Sam,” Pam replied.

“You’re supposed to be _dead_ , Pam!” Sam shouted. “Also, Meg’s cool.”

“Meg? As in Meg Masters?” Ash said. “The _demon that possessed you_?”

“Oh, hey!” Jessie interrupted, brightening. “Ash and Pam, right? Two more off the list!” She did a little jig, much to the confusion of pretty much everyone in the room. Meg stalked over to the bar.

“I need a glass of water,” Meg asked Gemma, scowling. “And a towel.”

Gemma handed her both things in short order, not speaking while she did so. She was keeping her eyes on the situation. Meg carefully rinsed out her mouth, wiped it off with the towel, and then used it to stop the blood pouring out of her shoulder. Within a few minutes, the wound had healed over. 

“Why are you here?” Sam said, some time later, after there had been a brief catch-up period where Sam explained Meg switching to their side, dying, and coming back to life. This was glossed over, as he got the feeling that Jessie hadn’t yet informed Meg who she was.

“Well, we were dead,” Ash said. “And then we weren’t. We woke up about two miles away from here, and we figured, if we got brought back, maybe Ellen and Jo did, so we hoofed it.”

“Yeah, not so much,” Jessie said, shaking her head. “I own this place now. Sorry.”

There was a moment of awkward silence as most everyone in the room suddenly became aware that Meg had been somewhat responsible for Ellen and Jo’s untimely demise. Meg shifted in place and offered, “I’ve turned over a new leaf?”

“Look, we worked out the details on the way here,” Pamela said, changing the subject. “Ash and I got to know each other pretty well in Heaven and we figured we’d stick together down here; I think we can pull off the brother and sister routine. But, no offense, we want pretty much nothing to do with you guys.”

Sam nodded, slowly. “I can completely understand that,” he said, talking over Charlie’s offended noises. “You’re getting a second chance at life and you want to actually -- you know. Live through it.”

“Exactamundo,” Ash said, pointing at Sam. “Just hook me up with a computer and I can get us real IDs and everything.”

“Oh _man_ ,” Charlie said, lighting up. “He’s never seen an iPad before.”

“What’s an iPad?” Ash asked, interested.

Sam sighed.

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie wound up _not_ forcing them all to drive back to the bunker, instead teleporting the group there, amulets in hand, and then going back. Meg looked a little put out at this; Sam carefully didn’t think about it too hard. After all, Meg had, for all intents and purposes, been in love with Castiel, and they hadn’t even told her where he was because it would betray Jessie’s secret.

Pam looked very much like she wanted to question this form of transportation but thought better of it at the last second. Ash wasn’t even fazed.

Charlie let Ash have at her computer system, which he was whooping over in almost no time, and he hooked himself and Pamela up with totally new identities. They didn’t even stay the night -- Sam handed over the keys to one of the many cars in the garage and they were gone by nightfall.

“That’s kind of a bummer,” Charlie said, moping. “They were your friends and now they’re not.”

“We did sort of get them killed,” Sam said. He thought this was completely reasonable. “I don’t blame them.”

“You’ve gotta stop blaming yourself for shit like that,” Meg said, throwing herself back into a chair. The Trans, Benny, and Victor weren’t up yet, as it was still relatively early in the morning, which Sam realized meant he still had to go to Kansas City with Charlie. His train of thought was interrupted by Meg, who’d continued speaking. “Yeah, their association with you is what got them killed, but you didn’t pull the trigger. We did.” And he got the idea that she meant demons in general, not their current group.

Sam shrugged, but Meg pressed on. “I’ve got plenty of blood on my hands myself, I know what guilt feels like. At least my shit, I _actually did_. You’re no innocent, but you didn’t kill _those_ two.”

“Meg’s right,” Charlie pointed out. “You only ever want to help people, Sam.”

They were quiet for a minute before Charlie piped up again. “So. Costco?”

Sam groaned. They were preparing to head out again when his phone rang from a number he didn’t recognize. He blinked, but answered it, stepping to the side so Charlie wouldn’t overhear him.

“Hello?” he asked.

“I warned you ‘bout makin’ deals, didn’t I?” Missouri Mosley said, from the other side of the line.

“Okay, first of all,” Sam hissed, “I didn’t make any deals. And second of all, you could have mentioned you were sending me to see the _literal Son of God_!”

Missouri sighed. “Nothing is free, Sam. Just remember that.” And then she hung up, leaving Sam to wonder what he’d gotten himself into.

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie didn’t often host company in her garage. Sam Winchester and Charlie Bradbury were a special case; usually that was her inner sanctum, where she could work in peace without being interrupted. This, however, was a special case.

“Bela,” she said, and the demon appeared before her. 

“Nice digs,” Bela said, not at all condescendingly, and Jessie rolled her eyes.

“I have a job for you, and it’s one I really don’t want to ask you to perform.” Jessie said. She looked sad. 

“Let me guess,” Bela said, examining a perfectly manicured nail. “You need intel on Hell, now that Crowley’s on the run and Dean’s in charge.”

“Sort of,” Jessie said. “Come on in, and I’ll tell you about it. This is one assignment -- well, I won’t force you to do it, but I _really_ need the information.”

Bela’s face grew grave before she looked Jessie in the eye. “World-ending kind of stuff?” she asked. Jessie nodded.

“As always,” Bela said, “the answer is yes. I owe you everything.”

“I can cure you,” Jessie said, desperately. “Afterward, if you want. I just need this intel.”

Bela shook her head. “I like not being defenseless.”

Jessie sighed and led her inside. “No one ever says yes,” she said, morosely.

Bela smiled.


	11. Episode Ten - Runnin’ With the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for this being so late but I was disassociating like a _motherfucker_ today. Anyway, here's the chapter.

** Episode Ten - Runnin’ With the Devil **

**__** _I live my life like there’s no tomorrow_

_All I’ve got I had to steal_

_At least I don’t need to beg or borrow_

_Yes, I’m living at a pace that kills_

\--Van Halen, “Runnin’ With the Devil”

_“I have a job for you, and it’s one I really don’t want to ask you to perform.” Jessie said. She looked sad._

_“Let me guess,” Bela said, examining a perfectly manicured nail. “You need intel on Hell, now that Crowley’s on the run and Dean’s in charge.”_

_“Sort of,” Jessie said. “Come on in, and I’ll tell you about it. This is one assignment -- well, I won’t force you to do it, but I really need the information.”_

_Bela’s face grew grave before she looked Jessie in the eye. “World-ending kind of stuff?” she asked. Jessie nodded._

_“As always,” Bela said, “the answer is yes. I owe you everything.”_

**\+ + + + +**

The week immediately following June 26, 2015, was essentially one big party in the LGBTQ community. Sam was completely unsurprised when Jessie, Meg, and Charlie disappeared for two days and reappeared _completely_ hungover on the first of July -- apparently, same-sex marriage warranted enough alcohol to intoxicate the Son of God _and_ a demon.

There hadn’t been any hunts in their neck of the woods that Sam could spot, and Kevin and Victor had spent most of their time either researching or playing WoW. They were slowly but surely talking Benny into it, but Kevin was trying to teach the vampire how to use a computer, which was _completely_ hilarious. 

Every now and then Kevin would go blank, grab his laptop, and disappear into his room. Sam didn’t question him on it, but Linda took the time to inform him that these were his prophet times -- times when he’d get a vision and an urge to write it down. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night and wandered his way into the main room, to a computer, to write down the scenes playing out in front of his eyes. Scripture, it seemed, didn’t take a break, and it had been happening even before Kevin’s untimely death; since he awoke as a Prophet. 

He kept the document on Google Drive. Smart, Sam thought. He could access it from any computer, and it could withstand a CIA hack because that’s how Google rolled. 

Still, Sam wondered what the prophet saw when he was stuck in his room.

Midway through the week, Victor took a break, and Sam sat down with him in the library, which was for once devoid of people.

“When you came back as a Witness --” Sam began.

Victor winced, but nodded, gesturing for the hunter to continue. He looked fatigued; Sam wondered if he should speak to Charlie about restricting their access to her WoW server, but he couldn’t really complain because she’d ‘ported his ‘toon over too, and it was totally addictive. He didn’t play as often, but he didn’t think he could point fingers.

“You told Dean some things,” he eventually continued. Victor nodded, slowly. “About your death. And Nancy’s.”

“I remember,” Victor said. 

“Was it true?” Sam asked. He sounded pitiful, but he had to know.

Victor shook his head. “No. I mean, Lillith prolonged it as long as she could, but it was mostly the fire-and-brimstone thing. Lots of burning. Pretty quick, to be honest.” He sighed. “I remember it clearly; I was in Heaven, and then I got wrenched back to Earth and I was so _angry_.” He shuddered. “It wasn’t even my anger, because I was never actually mad at you two about it. It wasn’t your fault; Lillith killed us. But I was so angry, and I would have said anything. To be honest, I wanted to make Dean kill _himself_. There was a part of me that didn’t want to do the deed, didn’t want to rip his heart out, even though I eventually did.” He shuddered again. “I mean, I tried to. But most of it was complete fabrication.”

Sam sighed. “I am sorry.”

Victor shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry for, man. You guys tried -- you gave us the tools we needed. You had no idea how close to your trail that bitch was. You couldn’t predict it.”

Sam nodded, slowly, and Victor stood up from his seat. 

“I never blamed either of you,” Victor said. “And Nancy and I talked about it, while we were waiting for you in Monument. She didn’t either. You guys had some questionable methods, but you tried to do good. The bad guys got us, but you tried. But just in case you feel like you need it: I forgive you. Call Nancy. She’ll give you the same answer.” And with that, Victor left the library.

Sam felt a weight lift from his shoulders, and he sighed, rolling them and cracking his neck before heading back to the main room. A beer and some TV were totally in order. This, mixed with research and the occasional foray into World of Warcraft, basically summed up Sam’s week until the other three came back.

Charlie, when she reappeared, had done so with a totally new computer setup, because apparently when Charlie is drunk and making out with hot women in Times Square, she decides to go on a shopping spree at the local high-tech computer store. Sam was pretty sure the only reason she managed to get it all back to the bunker was because Jessie had flown them in directly. 

Despite her hangover, Charlie immediately began setting up her new workstation, which apparently included a desk on wheels so she could move it around the bunker for ease of use. Sam was reluctantly impressed with her ability to assemble IKEA furniture while so hungover she was still practically intoxicated. 

“I get why _she’s_ excited,” Kevin said, pointing to Charlie. “But why are _you_ two all giddy about same-sex marriage? Gonna pop the question, Meg?”

Jessie rolled her eyes. “Give us a break, we just had our second date. Bit early to pick out curtains.”

Meg actually blushed, and the entire bunker went completely silent for about ten solid seconds, save the sounds of Charlie setting up her new desk.

The silence was interrupted by the shrill sound of Sam’s phone ringing. “Oh, thank _God_ ,” he said, grabbing it and answering. “Hey, Jody,” he said. He glanced around. “No, nothing going on here, not really. Why? Uh. No, that’s fine, I just -- yeah, no, we’ll get rooms set up.” He blinked. “So, Jody’s coming by with Alex. They think they’ve found something we need to see.”

“Why would we need to get rooms set up?” Linda asked. “They’re all ready to go. Just because you’ve all been lounging around doesn’t mean Benny and I haven’t been busy.”

“Yeah, the rooms are all pretty much ready to go,” Benny said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Figured I might as well help, seeing as I’m stronger’n most people.”

“I was gonna install the number plates,” Victor said, almost sadly; he liked the power drill the Men of Letters had kept around, because it was more of an _impact wrench_ than a drill.

Linda snorted. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We left them for you.”

**\+ + + + +**

Rowena had to give Fergus this much: he had a sense of style.

The desk he’d given her (hell, the whole _office_ ) had a distinguished look. There was a fire crackling nearby, the chair was fine leather, and the desk itself was highly-polished teakwood. There was a dark leather desk pad in the center, upon which her latest achievement sat: an old, decrepit book bound in and comprised of what looked to be leather, but was in fact human skin. The words were writ in _actual blood_ ; really, the whole thing was kind of overdramatic, but she had to admit that the writer had flare.

Fergus himself stood at her side, and she almost felt a glow of motherly love. _Almost_.

She smiled. “You have your work cut out for you.”

Crowley shrugged; he had a tumbler of fine whisky in his hand, and the movement made the ice inside of it clack against the glass.

“It just says they have to be on either coast,” he said, gesturing to a passage. “There are already two cities of sin nicely placed for something like that. A little pot-stirring’s all that needs to be done, really; I’ll just have to gather some troops. Shouldn’t be too hard; I had plenty of active supporters.”

“I had no idea that you read Elamite,” Rowena said. Now that -- that was _actual_ motherly pride. Her son hadn’t wasted that fine brain after all.

Crowley shrugged again. “One picks it up in this line of work,” he said. He pointed to another passage. “That might present a bit of a problem.”

“I’ll take care of that,” she replied, smoothly, leaning forward again. “I happen to have a few connections in that area.”

Crowley raised his eyebrow. “Are you certain? It’s been a while, _mother_ ; most of your connections are likely dead.”

“This is a new one,” she said. “You might know her, actually.” With that, she stood, walking around the desk and toward the door of the office. “Come in,” she said, rapping at the wood, and the door opened, revealing a demon in a blonde meatsuit.

It’s eyes flashed black and it smiled. “Bela Talbot, at your service,” she said, voice smooth as silk, a cultured British accent not unlike Crowley’s.

“Bela’s a new demon,” Rowena said, taking her seat at the desk again. “Rumor has it she used to be an arms dealer when she was topside. She escaped Hell when your knight took over.”

“Yes, I remember,” Crowley said, eyeing her. “Bit of a history with the brothers Winchester, too, as I recall.”

“Yes, I’d very much like to settle some scores there,” Bela said, shrugging. “Still, having someone else do it while I retire to Tahiti has its appeal.”

Rowena smirked. “As long as you do what’s needed. Get to.”

Both Crowley and Bela nodded; seconds later, they’d both disappeared from view, and she leaned back in the chair, content to continue her own personal plotting. Crowley drank little but fine scotch, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be doctored with a bit of blood, spelled clear. 

_Human_ blood. Because, as she’d learned in her youth, addicts were so much easier to manipulate. She smiled.

Yes, she very much liked the 21st century. 

**\+ + + + +**

Sam was by nature an early-riser, a direct contrast to his brother, who had learned the habit but, if left to his own devices, would sleep until noon. He rose around 6 a.m. naturally, earlier if he’d had an early night of it, and later if he’d severely exhausted himself the day previously.

Since neither of those two events had occurred, Sam woke up, eyes snapping open and glancing toward the clock on his nightstand. 6:03 a.m. Sighing, he sat up in bed, stretching and popping his neck before standing.

He wasn’t as paranoid as Dean had been, although considering Dean was now the _King of fucking Hell_ maybe he should be. Either way, Sam had actual night clothing that he wore to bed, instead of just passing out fully clothed most nights. Because Sam was Sam, however, they doubled as workout gear, and Sam decided that since he’d done it the last week or two, when able, that a morning run was in order. He slipped socks and tennis shoes on before stretching, as he made his way to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, and grabbing his key to the bunker, looping the cording Charlie’d threaded through it around his neck.

It was cool; the sun hadn’t quite risen yet, and as Sam took off for a leisurely lope around the Bunker’s grounds he found himself grateful. Dew splashed on his tennis shoes, soaking through to his socks, but he didn’t care; after the first mile he hit his second wind and began to really push himself, coming to a slow stop about a quarter mile from the bunker’s entrance for a cool-down walk. 

He didn’t expect to hear voices.

“What could he possibly want _Moses’ staff_ for?” Jessie was saying, a worried note to her voice.

“I haven’t the faintest,” a familiar British voice said, and Sam peered around a tree to see that Jessie had met in a clearing with her assistant -- Bela Talbot. She sounded almost desperate. “He hasn’t let me in on that yet. But if I don’t come back with it, my head is on the table. If I’m going to be spying, you need to make sure I can _actually_ be valuable.”

Jessie waved. “Don’t worry, I can get you the staff. It’ll take a day or two; it’s in Heaven, and I’ll have to summon one of the archangels. I’ll call you when I have it, okay?”

“Thank you,” Bela said, sounding actually grateful. 

“I wish I didn’t have to ask you to do this,” Jessie said. She sounded sad. “But I’ll do everything in my power to protect you while you are, okay? Just continue calling around, all your old contacts. Act like you’re doing what he told you to do.”

Sam realized that there was a very good chance he’d be spotted, as the conversation seemed to be winding down, and he crept away from the clearing and headed back toward the bunker. 

So. Jessie had Bela spying on someone. Who? Dean? Dean wouldn’t trust Bela as far as he could throw her -- or rather, as far as he used to be able to throw her. 

Sam continued pondering this as he entered the bunker, but pretty soon his thoughts derailed as he caught sight of the figure standing in the center of the main room.

“Cas?” he said, eyes wide. The angel -- archangel, now -- turned around to look at him and smiled, his face lighting up.

“Hello, Sam,” said Castiel.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam was so happy to see Castiel that he actually hugged the other man, which Castiel stiffly accepted before remembering he was supposed to hug back.

Jessie appeared out of her room like she hadn’t just been in the woods, conversing with Bela, and beamed at Castiel. “Orientation went okay, then?”

Castiel shrugged, something he didn’t seem to have grown out of -- perversely, Sam was glad that Cas kept these vestiges of humanity -- but didn’t respond. Not until Meg followed Jessie out of her room, yawning and idly rubbing up against her until she spotted the angel in the room.

“Castiel?” Meg said, coming up short.

“Meg?” Cas replied, stunned. “They -- Sam and Dean -- they told me you’d died.”

“I _did_ ,” Meg said, sounding a little bitter. Then she brightened. “But I got better.”

Castiel smiled, still a little astonished. “I’m glad to hear it. Is it the same --”

Jessie coughed, lightly, and Cas shut up. But then he glanced at the two of them, their entangled fingers, and he frowned at Jessie.

“That is not trustworthy behavior,” he chastised her. She threw her head back and laughed.

“I could talk about untrustworthy behavior, but Meg might be mad at me for kissing and telling.”

Meg looked, from where Sam was standing, a little bit guilty, but Castiel didn’t seem very perturbed at the two of them -- he’d been sweet on Meg, Sam knew he’d been, but Castiel also wanted the people he loved to be happy. And if Jessie, for some reason, made Meg happy, Castiel would be happy about it.

His issue, Sam was pretty sure, was that she hadn’t yet divulged who she truly was to Meg. Sam had the same issue, to be honest, but he wasn’t gonna fuck with that particular bear of a problem. Not his circus, not his monkey.

He also seemed a little disturbed that Jessie was still hanging around the bunker, but Sam assumed that Jessie was hanging around because _Meg_ was here, and he was pretty sure Castiel eventually came to the same conclusion, because the disturbed expression cleared from his face.

“Well, if it ain’t the angel,” a voice drawled from the bedroom bloc hallway, and the four of them turned to see Benny, leaning against the wall and eyeballing Castiel.

“ _Benny_ ,” Cas said, stunned anew. Then, like Sam had before him, he strode to the vampire and hugged him, which seemed to throw Benny off his game for a second.

“Aw, that’s cute,” Meg said, imitating Benny’s drawl.

“Glad to see you too, friend,” Benny said, his voice muffled by Castiel’s shoulder.

“I was going to try to find you,” Castiel said, stepping away from the vampire and then glancing guiltily at Jessie. “When I got back. I’m glad to see a trip to Purgatory won’t be necessary.”

Benny stared at him, blinking.

“I thought you two _hated_ each other?” Sam blurted out.

Cas looked a little guilty and then answered, “Benny was a good friend to Dean, and yourself, even if he and I didn’t get along particularly well. He was worth being saved.”

Jessie grinned and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “See? He’s using his powers for good already. No need to worry.”

Castiel didn’t look entirely convinced.

**\+ + + + +**

After everyone else woke up -- and after Castiel received several welcome-back hugs and greetings -- they all sat down to breakfast. Sam could cook, but since his breakfast fare tended toward egg whites and smoothies, Charlie and Victor had declared themselves the masters of the kitchen several days previous, and it was scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast that the group devoured.

Except for Sam, who Charlie had magnanimously prepared, “your stupid rabbit food,” for. Sometimes she was so much like Dean that it _hurt_.

Meg ate even if she didn’t necessarily need it, and so did Jessie, and Benny sipped on a pouch of defrosted blood and sat with everyone else. It was almost like a family, and Sam wistfully wished that Dean was there.

It wasn’t until breakfast was over and Kevin, Linda, and Victor had started clearing the plates -- and Meg had left the room for a morning shower -- that Jessie dropped her bombshell.

“You know, I could cure you,” she said, pointing at Benny. Benny blinked at her, stunned.

“Beg pardon?” he asked. 

“If you don’t want to be a vampire,” Jessie said, like she was talking to a child. Which Sam privately thought was kind of rude. “I could cure you.”

“I -- but I’ve drank blood before,” Benny said, glancing at Sam. Sam shrugged; he knew that Dean had told Benny about his own brush with vampirism before, but he wasn’t sure of the specifics his brother had imparted. Clearly, it was enough. “How is that possible?”

“Um, hello? Son of God?” Jessie said. “Think on it, anyway. If you want to be cured, I can make it happen. If not, no big. Offer’s on the table.” She leaned back, propped her feet on the table in front of her, and closed her eyes, like she was going to take a nap and hadn’t just entirely upset someone’s world.

Without a word, Benny stood and wandered away to his room. Sam wondered which way he’d choose -- and when.

**\+ + + + +**

Charlie and Kevin spent the majority of the day sifting through Charlie’s piled-up algorithm results, finding a few actual cases. Sam called hunters who resided in those geographical areas and alerted them to what was going on -- often with Kevin or Castiel’s help, as they could generally figure out, between the two of them, what creature or being was fucking things up. It was something of an unspoken rule between the group of them that they didn’t leave the bunker unless absolutely necessary. After all, the King of Hell was potentially after them.

Meg and Jessie spent the majority of the day in Jessie’s room, wandering out occasionally for food or to make random conversation. Sam tried very hard not to think about it; from the looks on everyone’s faces (except Castiel’s), the rest of the bunker residents were following his lead on that one.

A few days ago, Sam had pulled all of Dean and his old burner phones, as well as his dad’s. Most of them were prepaid flip-phones that you could buy at gas stations, and most of them still had minutes on them. He’d set the ones they’d used in the past up on a countertop in the main room, on chargers, and Charlie hacked into the accounts to make sure they all had plenty of airtime on them. 

This turned out to be a good thing, because within the span of an hour, Sam got three separate phone calls on three separate phones -- Jake Talley, who’d somehow got Sam’s old phone number before they tried (and in Jake’s case, succeeded in doing so) to kill each other; Sarah Blake, newly risen from her grave and confused and terrified; and Pastor Jim, convinced he was a zombie of some sort. 

Charlie set to getting the three of them to the bunker, purchasing bus tickets and organizing wire transfers. Most of them had died near the geographical center of the US, so they’d be there by morning and have a chance to shower, sleep, and change into clean clothing. One of the many things they’d picked up on the Costco runs was a plethora of generic clothing, underthings, and shoes, in multiple sizes, which had been Charlie’s suggestion, and apparently a good one.

Jessie produced a white board and hung it in the main room without asking permission which -- _rude_. She divided it into two columns and began writing on it; by the time it was done one column was a lot fuller than the other. They read:

Victor Henrickson

Kevin Tran

Nancy Fitzgerald

Ashley Henderson, but y’all know him as Ash and can you blame him

Pamela Barnes

Sarah Blake

Jake Talley

Pastor Jim Murphy

and:

Meg Masters who won’t tell me her _real goddamn name_ (Demon)

Benjamin LaFitte (Vampire)

“ _Charming_ ,” Meg said, lobbing a wadded-up piece of paper at the board. Jessie frowned at her but didn’t erase the commentary next to Meg’s name.

Then she pulled out her phone and attempted to make a phone call. Whoever she was calling wasn’t answering, however, and she frowned as she ended the call with a particularly vehement push of the finger. 

The other three would be there first thing tomorrow morning; Linda, Victor, and Benny set up rooms for them while Charlie looked them up online and began constructing fake ID’s for them; whether they chose to make like Nancy or like Victor, they needed identification. The wire transfers Charlie’d set up had been done through some shady places so they wouldn’t need ID to get the cash, and she hated giving those places business. 

Then, because it was going to be an early morning for Sam, he retired to bed. This time, he actually set an alarm.

**\+ + + + +**

“I’m still unsure of where you’re going with this,” Crowley said. He’d pulled Rowena’s book to him and settled in front of a fire, crackling merrily, his hellhound at his feet and a glass of good scotch at his side. 

“It’s like I said,” Rowena said, gliding to sit in the chair opposite him, her own glass of scotch in her hand. “Why be the ruler of one realm when you can own two?”

“It may have escaped your notice, but I did say _recently deposed_ ,” Crowley said, bitterly. He downed his glass of scotch and Rowena stood back up, moving to refill it. 

“Oh, certainly, and that’s a bump in the road we’ll cover,” Rowena said. She filled the glass up with scotch, her back to Fergus as she did so. “But how much support do you think you’ll gain from the hordes when you take over Earth? You know as well as I do that Hell accepts whoever has the most support as its master.” She carefully tipped a vial of human blood -- spelled clear, of course -- into the scotch, swirling it with her finger before she turned and glided back toward her son. She set the glass at his side before sitting back down.

“And just how are we going to accomplish that?” Crowley said. He peered at the text while sipping on his scotch. “This is obviously a spell, but for what?”

“Why, to open all of the hellgates on this continent, of course,” Rowena said, pleasantly. She enjoyed the spit-take her son made and smiled, sipping off of her own undoctored scotch.

“That isn’t possible,” Crowley said.

“Oh, it is indeed,” Rowena countered, smiling even more broadly. “And when it’s done, you’ll be king of two of the four realms.” She let her smile turn fond. “My boy.”

Crowley eyed her and downed the rest of his scotch, licking his lips for every last drop.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam woke up at 5 a.m., showering and dressing in preparation for heading to the bus station. He was shaving when Kevin skidded, half-awake and with one sock on, into the bathroom, scaring the shit out of Sam in the process and leading to nick in his cheek that bled rather profusely before he managed to stick a wad of TP to it.

“What’s going on?”

“ _Channing_ ,” Kevin gasped out.

Sam finished shaving, ignoring Kevin for a second, before he set his razor back down. He rinsed his face off, re-plugged the nick on his cheek with more TP, and then turned to the prophet, who’d managed to calm down enough to speak in full sentences.

“Channing. She’s alive. She’s alive and she emailed me this morning and it’s her, I _know_ it’s her, she’s freaked out and alive and I have to go to her,” Kevin managed.

At this point Linda, seemingly summoned by her son’s distress, wandered up, and Sam ushered the two of them into the main living room.

Charlie was still awake, chatting with Castiel in the main room, and when she heard the news she immediately dived into it.

“Channing was never reported dead, just missing,” she announced, crowing in delight. “That means I don’t have to fake an identity for her, she just needs to come up with a reason she went missing.”

“College stress,” Linda said. Everyone looked at her and she shrugged. “What? It happens to the best of us.”

Charlie got started producing replacement identification for Channing, as hers had almost certainly been lost, and it was then that Kevin dropped the bombshell.

“I need to go to her,” he said. “It’s my fault she’s dead.”

There was a beat, and then --

“If Kevin’s going, so am I,” Linda said, severely. 

“Guys, Dean might be out to get us,” Sam said, helpless. 

“I’m going to her,” Kevin said.

Castiel sighed and then told Sam, “If for some reason,” and he closed his eyes before exhaling again. “ _Dean_ kills the prophet, it would be my heavenly duty to bring him back.”

“And my mom? And Channing?” Kevin challenged.

“And me,” Charlie interrupted, drawing stares. “ _What_? I get cabin fever too! And I need some more things that I can’t just... _buy_ on the internet without alerting some people. I’ll be back in a few days, _tops_.” She pleaded at Sam with her face, making the most pathetic expression of begging he’d ever seen anyone make -- and he’d grown up with _Dean_.

Sam sighed and raised his eyes heavenward before turning toward Castiel.

“I am tasked with protecting the prophet and destroying anything that endangers him,” Castiel said slowly. Then he continued with, “It’s been said that the mental health of a human can be endangered as well, which allows for some leeway --”

He didn’t get to finish because Kevin had thrown his arms around the archangel. Really, Sam thought Cas had been hugged (or hugged other people) more in the last 24 hours than the last six years. 

Kevin flew to his room, packing up his things; his mother and Charlie did the same at a more sedate pace. Castiel promised Sam that he would verify that Channing was not, in fact, still demonic in nature before leaving the Trans with her, and besides, all three of them were wearing Jessie’s amulets. Sam had to trust that the Son of God actually knew what the fuck she was doing, and he took off to the bus station, trusting the prophet and his mother, and Sam’s own adopted little sister, to an archangel of the lord -- and probably his best friend, now that he thought about it.

**\+ + + + +**

To say the meeting between Jake Talley and Sam Winchester was awkward wouldn’t even begin to cover it, and naturally, Jake’s bus was the one that turned up first. 

“Hey,” he said. Jake, who hadn’t changed a bit from the day he died, looked at Sam in total astonishment.

“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve seen some shit, haven’t you?”

“You have _no_ idea,” Sam replied, grinning wryly. He glanced at the clock. “Sarah’s bus is supposed to get here in a few minutes, but then we’ve got an hour wait until Pastor Jim shows up. We can get breakfast and you two can fill me in.”

Sarah didn’t greet Sam with the same astonishment that Jake had and instead seemed terrified -- and heartbroken, when Sam reported that her body had been recovered and her family thought her dead. She was understandably distraught to discover she’d never be able to see her daughter grow up without seriously freaking them out and bringing them into the hunting life, something she devoutly did _not_ want. 

Sam didn’t discuss options until they’d picked up Pastor Jim and presented him with takeout from the diner, piling into the Impala.

“Basically, you have two options, assuming you don’t want to try and inform all of your families and friends and coworkers that the supernatural exists,” Sam said. Pastor Jim, out of them all, looked the most haunted, but that was probably because it had been damn near a decade since he’d died. 

“Not an option,” Sarah said, firmly. Jake nodded his head in agreement, and Pastor Jim mumbled his acceptance of this as well through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. 

“Alright, well, I’ve got a safe space,” Sam continued. “It’s become a base of operations for me, and it’s also pretty much impregnable by anything other than an angel.”

Pastor Jim’s eyes widened and Sam wondered what he’d make of Castiel.

“There’s plenty of space there -- we’ve got rooms for you to crash for today, at least -- and you’re welcome to stay there and either help out with our current issue, or just try and figure out what you want to do.”

“What’s your current issue?” Jake asked, curious.

Sam sighed. “Long story short? Dean took on the Mark of Cain to kill a Knight of Hell, but he became a Knight in the process, and how he’s King of Hell and we’re trying to take him down. Preferably without killing him.” Pastor Jim looked like he was about to keel over at the news, but then, Pastor Jim had known him and Dean a lot longer than the other two.

“Yeah, pass,” Sarah said. “What’s option number two?”

“Our friend Charlie set up full and complete alternate lives for you,” Sam said. “Before she took off this morning. Bank accounts, passports, social security numbers, drivers’ licenses, houses, cell phone plans, even resumes. All ready and waiting.”

“A clean start,” Pastor Jim said.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Sam said. Then he continued with: “You don’t have to decide right away. Get a shower, a good night’s sleep, and some more food in you, and think it over.”

The other three were silent at this statement, but he had a pretty good idea that they were all going to take Charlie’s proffered new lives.

**\+ + + + +**

Somehow, Sam had managed to completely forget about Jody and Alex, who showed up directly after Sam, with a parchment that looked like it was written on human skin, totally skeeved out. 

Benny, ever the southern gentleman, got two additional rooms set up while Sam settled Jake, Pastor Jim, and Sarah up in rooms and pointing them toward the communal washroom. He also handed them the packets Charlie had set up with their new identities, should they choose to take them, and the two men politely gestured Sarah toward the bathroom. Around this time, Jessie and Meg chose to show themselves and helped Sarah pick out a clean outfit from the assortment of clothing Charlie had picked out; apparently, while Sam had been sleeping last night, Jessie had taken it upon herself to organize it. One of their storage rooms now looked like a very bland department store, with things organized by size and fit on shelves and hanging rods that Sam very carefully didn’t examine too close. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been there last night. 

They got the two men set up with clean clothing as well -- sleepwear and an outfit for when they woke up -- before they finally were able to return to the main room. Benny had settled Jody and Alex down with breakfast, which Victor had apparently made during all the hubbub; in the center of the table lay the parchment. 

“It’s a piece of an entire book, the Book of the Damned,” Jody said, shoveling eggs into her mouth. “I looked into it; there were only three of them ever made, after some nun went insane in 1302, all written in this really obscure dialect of Elamite, and for some reason, all on human skin.”

“I read Elamite,” Castiel said. Like the human skin part wasn’t the insurmountable bit.

“I figured you could,” Jody nodded at him. “And I was hoping you were around, because I can’t make heads nor tails of it. Anyway, one of the copies was completely destroyed back during the Black Death; one of the people who owned one belonged to something called a Grand Coven, and all of her possessions were burned with her body when she died of plague.”

Castiel blinked. “The Grand Coven possessed the Book of the Damned?”

Jody shrugged and Alex took up the story.

“Only for a little while,” she said. “As far as we can tell, the witch only had it for a few months before she died.”

“The second we can only trace to the 1600’s,” Jody said. “Some Scottish witch in the Grand Coven, a Rowena MacLeod, came into possession of one before she got kicked out of the coven.”

Jessie sat up straight in her chair and began listening very closely; no one else seemed to notice, but _Sam_ certainly did.

“She disappeared, as far as I can tell,” Jody said, shrugging. “I mean, 1600’s, must be dead by now, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Castiel said, frowning. “There are two kinds of witches -- those who get their powers from demonic deals, and those who come by it naturally. The second type can prolong their lives, even to something resembling immortality, if they’re sufficiently strong enough.”

Alex looked disturbed. “From what we could read, the Grand Coven kicked Rowena out because she was too powerful, and because she slept with someone with non-magical powers and had a kid with him.”

“So Rowena might still be around,” Victor said.

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Sam said, wryly. “Did it mention her son’s name?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, wrinkling her nose. “ _Fergus_. Who the hell names her kid Fergus? _Ugh_.”

Castiel went still before turning to Sam, eyes wide as they’d ever been.

“He wasn’t so fond of it either,” Sam replied, cursing mentally. “He’s going by Crowley these days, I think.”

There was a prolonged pause in the group as everyone parsed that and the blood drained from their faces.

“Wait, Crowley’s _mother_ might have the Book of the Damned?” Jody said, her voice raising in pitch. 

“That’s assuming she’s still alive and didn’t simply leave it in his possession,” Castiel said. He shuddered. “Whether he has it on him or left in Hell when he fled, such a situation would be absolutely dire to us. The Book of the Damned is said to contain forbidden magics, things even God forbade angels to speak of; things Lucifer himself invented prior to his rebellion.”

Sam contemplated this for several moments before Benny blurted out, “Good lord, I hope Dean don’t have it.”

“Indeed,” Castiel said, gravely. “The King of Hell having access to such magic would be a terrible thing.” It was the first time Cas had referenced Dean’s takeover directly, and he looked vaguely ill.

“Okay so, Bobby didn’t have the whole Book,” Jody interrupted, trying to finish her story. She’d been briefed on pretty much everything while Benny got her and Alex settled in their rooms, although she still seemed skeptical that Jessie was the Son of God, so she was in the know about the Dean-being-King-of-Hell thing. “Just the one page that I could find; apparently the last copy was mostly-destroyed by a bunch of priests in the early 1900’s. The only surviving pages used to belong to Samuel Colt, and this one’s a doozy, from what I can tell -- I don’t read Elamite and had to look it up.”

Castiel held his hand out and, using her butter knife, Jody gently nudged the page toward him. He read both sides, his eyes widening. 

“This is part of a spell. Not all of it, but it is, as you said, a ‘doozy,’” and while Cas didn’t make the air quotes, Sam could hear them in the way he pronounced his words. “It doesn’t have the entire spell, but it _does_ involve opening all of the hellgates on a particular continent.”

“What kind of ingredients does it need?” Alex asked, interested.

“A lot of them aren’t particularly set in stone,” Cas said, squinting at the paper. Sam imagined he was trying to parse the Elamite into Enochian, and then Enochian into English. _Had_ to be frustrating. “Dragons blood can be substituted with most lizard bloods, since there are so few dragons left, or the blood of a banshee, as they’re somewhat related magically. A crystal wand isn’t necessary; a wooden one would do as well. But there’s a bit here about requiring Heavenly power, and either that means one would need an Archangel on their side -- “

“Luckily those are all under control right now,” Jessie interjected. Cas ignored her, apparently still peeved that she hadn’t revealed her true nature to Meg.

“Or a Heavenly weapon.”

“Symbolically speaking,” Meg said, frowning down at the piece of skin in Cas’ hands. “A Heavenly weapon that had been used to divide or cut something would probably be strongest, since they’d be parting the veil between the worlds. A sword of some sort, perhaps?”

Cas thought about it before slowly answering, “Actually, the Staff of Moses would probably be most effective. The swords we possess are mostly powerless after the battle for Heaven with Raphael, but the Staff never got used. It’s still at full-power and it parted an entire sea.”

Jessie and Sam both went completely still, and Jessie turned to eye Sam; she’d obviously spotted him eavesdropping the other morning. Everyone else was focusing on Castiel, and so only Sam caught what she mouthed at him: _Crowley_.

Sam swore silently. This was worse than they thought.

**\+ + + + +**

“Oh, _Fergus_ ,” Rowena said, smiling and placing her hand on her son’s borrowed shoulder. “This is more than I could have hoped for.”

“I wasn’t entirely useless as King, you know,” he said, sipping his scotch and watching with pleasure. He’d managed to get word out to his few followers; a mere two hundred or so had answered the call, but that was more than enough for his purposes. They were milling about in the well-warded space of Crowley’s hidden property, waiting for orders.

There was a rustling to their side, and Bela showed up, seemingly out of breath. “I got it,” she said, her eyes alight in a very human way. She held her hand out and --

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Crowley said, reverent as he took the Staff from her. It burned to the touch, but not as much as he’d have thought it would have, and he handed it off to his mother to inspect.

“It’s the real deal,” she said, after a few minutes poking and prodding at it. She smiled. “ _Excellent_ job, Bela.”

“Took a while to find, and I had to ditch some angels to manage it, but we have it now,” Bela said, grinning. 

“Just in time, then, because we need to acquire some Dragon’s Blood,” Rowena said. “Sure, you can use the blood of a salamander but it just doesn’t have the right,” and she clenched her fist, “ _oomph_.”

Bela raised her eyebrow at that, calming and collecting herself visibly. “And how do you suggest I acquire that? The things are nearly extinct in the US, and I can’t cross oceans without a special spell.”

“Right,” Rowena said, nodding to herself, and producing a hex bag. Bela looked delighted. “It should last about a month; if you require more time, come back and get another.”

Bela bowed slightly to the both of them and disappeared.

“I honestly didn’t think she’d come through,” Crowley said.

“Well, son, that’s the problem with being a demon,” Rowena said, stroking the staff lovingly. “You always expect the worst out of people.”

Several feet away, two demons made eye contact with each other and nodded. The King had commanded they answer the summons and report back as soon as possible, and tonight, when Crowley and Rowena retired to the house, they’d sneak off to tell their Lord -- of Crowley’s plans, his mother’s presence, and the deceit of Bela Talbot.

**\+ + + + +**

Unsurprisingly, Jake, Sarah, and Pastor Jim had decided to take the fresh starts Charlie had prepared for them, and a small flurry of packing what few belongings they had, distributing the link to the dropbox emergency file (Charlie had already updated it with the phone numbers she’d secured for the three), and procuring bus, train, and plane tickets (Sarah was going to Hawaii, to be as far as possible away from her family) ensued. The packets Charlie had prepared had documentation -- birth certificates, drivers licenses, passports, social security cards, rental agreements, email histories to rental agencies, resumes, and the like. Each also included a credit card number, in their new names, that could be used for online purchases, and a small amount of cash for the duration of their travel. Once they reached their new homes (Jake was heading to San Francisco, and Pastor Jim to Nashville; Sarah was actually going to be living in a smallish town on the big island of Hawaii), their phones, new possessions, cars, furniture, keys, and debit and credit cards would be waiting for them.

For this particular project Charlie had funneled cash from Ben Carson and several anti-abortion groups, running the cash through about ten different shell companies and a bank in the Caymans before depositing it into their individual accounts. 

Just after everyone else had headed to bed, Jake approached Sam in the main room.

“So, uh,” he said, scratching at the back of his head. “Look, last time we --”

“I know,” Sam said, sighing and sitting down. It had been a long day, and he still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Jessie about what she knew. “You killed me, I came back. It’s kind of a recurring theme in my life. No hard feelings; Azazel put us in a weird spot.”

“That’s the thing,” Jake said, frowning as he also sat down. “At the time, I _wanted_ to do it. I wanted to _win_. I didn’t know exactly what I was signing up for, but it was better than _dead_ , and I’d probably do it again.” He looked troubled. 

“You still got super-strength?” Sam asked. Jake looked astonished at the abrupt change of topics, but then he nodded.

“It’s not as strong as it was before, but I checked. I can still, you know. Pick up cars and shit.” He snorted. “Now that I know what the reason is, I’m not entirely happy with it.”

“Use it to your advantage,” Sam said. He added another file to the dropbox account and linked Jake to it via the email Charlie had set up. “I just sent you a link to the hunting database Charlie’s been building. We’re adding to it, slowly, from our library here and our own experiences. Hunt. If you have any violent urges, take it out on monsters -- not people.”

Jake looked grateful. “So, are -- are we cool?”

Sam thought about it for a second, before nodding. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re cool.”

**\+ + + + +**

The two of them were loyal, Dean had to give them that. They gave their report and ran back off to wherever it was Crowley was hiding -- that, they’d been spelled silent about, probably by the wards. But they’d had valuable information anyway.

Crowley. Crowley’s mother. The Staff of Moses. Bela Talbot. Opening hellmouths. Dean didn’t like it much, and he called Raum and Hastur to his side.

“Crowley’s planning to take over Earth to win back Hell,” he said. “I’m not sure how; find out,” and he nodded at Hastur. She nodded back and disappeared. Then Dean turned back to Raum and smiled, silkily.

“I want guards posted at every hellmouth. Trustworthy guards. No one gets out without my say-so.”

“Yes, my lord,” Raum said, his eyes gazing up and down Dean’s body before he, too, disappeared. Dean laughed at his empty throne room.

That idiot thought he could get the best of _him_? He was a Knight. And he was _Dean fucking Winchester_. Heaven and Hell _combined_ couldn’t beat him; what did Crowley think he had that those two hadn’t?

Moron.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam was having problems sleeping, tossing and turning the problem of Crowley around in his head. Jessie’d disappeared that night, off to God knows where, and he’d received no answers from her before her leave-taking. Now he was just worried. 

Finally, around three in the morning he gave it up as a bad job and headed out into the main hall. Castiel, who Sam was surprised hadn’t fucked off with Jessie, was sitting at one of the tables, a book in front of him and the book page off to the side.

He looked worried.

Sam went into the kitchen, made them both coffee -- decaf for him, regular for Cas -- and placed Castiel’s in front of him before taking the seat across from the angel. It took a few minutes for Cas to un-bury himself from the book and notice the coffee, and he stared at it for several seconds, like it had appeared out of nowhere.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. Cas blinked and glanced up at him; to Sam’s deep surprise, the archangel looked exhausted. “You’re not supposed to get tired. What gives?”

Cas sighed. “I am worried. About many things. Even an archangel can get tired, Sam. Not physically, but -- otherwise.”

“Emotionally?” Sam suggested. Cas shrugged. 

“I suppose that is as good a term as any. I am worried -- about this spell, about Dean’s descent into Hell. I don’t want --”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, wincing. “I don’t want that either. That’s why Jessie’s working on him.”

“I am also angry with her,” Castiel said, stilted, like he knew he wasn’t supposed to be but he was anyway. “Meg deserves to know the truth.”

“She does,” Sam said. “But that’s not really our business, is it? That’s between them. This -- this thing that they’ve got going on, it’s new and it’s theirs and we don’t get to fuck around with it.”

Cas deflated. “I know,” he said, quiet. “I only want the best for Meg, and I don’t know what Yeshua’s intentions are. She can be dangerous, especially to the demonic. It’s -- it’s like not disclosing to a lover that you have a sexually transmitted disease.”

Sam tried to process the fact that Cas knew STD protocol in relationships before he remembered Metatron’d info-dumped a bunch of pop culture references into his head. Then he shook his head.

“Still,” he said. “It’s not our secret to impart, and we just have to wait it out.”

“I know,” Cas said, grumpily turning back toward the book he was reading. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Sam shrugged and they sipped their coffee in relative silence for a bit before Sam spoke up again.

“So what’s it like? Being an archangel.”

“Different,” Castiel said, frowning. “And yet, the same. I have more power, more strength, and I feel more purpose, and yet, I am the same as I was before. The same feelings, the same yearnings, the same desires and -- I even find myself missing grape jam. It’s odd.”

The archangel paused and then admitted, “I miss Dean,” he said, like it was holy confession. “Not that you are not a treasured friend as well, Sam,” he rushed, quickly. “I simply -- miss my friend.”

Sam laughed, bitterly. “Look, Cas, I’m not taking offense to that. We’re _friends_ , but you and Dean -- that’s something else again. You two have something more than just friendship. There’s a bond there --”

“If you’re suggesting that Dean and I are romantically involved --” Cas began, with every evidence of being actually offended.

“That’s _not_ what I’m saying,” Sam interrupted, “Although I _could_ see it going that way pretty easily, the way you two dance around each other, and I don’t really care about it one way or the other. What I’m saying is that you two have something different than what you and _I_ have, and I’m not offended. And I miss him too, Cas, more than you can imagine.”

Cas sighed. And like Sam was reading his mind, he grinned and said, “Yes, Cas, it _is_ that obvious. To everyone but Dean. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us.”

The archangel rolled his eyes, but it was with purpose that he continued reading.


	12. Episode Eleven - I'm So Sorry

** Episode Eleven - I’m So Sorry **

**__** _No lies and no deceiving, man is what he loves_

_I keep trying to conceive that death is from above (No time)_

_I get mine and make no excuses, waste of precious breath (No time)_

_The sun shines on everyone, everyone -- Love yourself to death_

_So you gotta fire up, you gotta let go_

_You’ll never be loved ‘til you make your own_

_You gotta face up, you gotta get yours_

_You’ll never know the top ‘til you get too low!_

_The son of a stepfather, the son of a --_

_I’m so sorry_

_The son of a stepfather, the son of a --_

_I’m so sorry!_

\--Imagine Dragons, “I’m So Sorry”

_Dean laughed at his empty throne room._

_That idiot Crowley thought he could get the best of him? He was a Knight. And he was **Dean fucking Winchester**. Heaven and Hell **combined** couldn’t beat him; what did Crowley think he had that those two hadn’t?_

_Moron._

**\+ + + + +**

The next morning was hectic -- Jody and Alex had a mad trip back to Sioux Falls to make, because Jody had to work night shift that evening for the 4th of July, and Alex had summer school on Monday, something she raged about half the time she was throwing her things into Jody’s car.

Meg took Jake, Pastor Jim, and Sarah to the bus stop, where they were all departing for their new homes. They left in the Impala; Meg actually looked a little stunned when Sam willingly handed over the keys and it wasn’t an actual emergency. It was like things were finally cool between the two of them with that one act, and Sam smiled as the demon left.

Things had just settled down a little bit when Jessie appeared back in the room -- with Kevin, Linda, Charlie, and a stunned Channing in tow. When Sam raised his eyebrow at her she shrugged and said, “What? They prayed, I answered.”

“Softie,” Sam sing-songed, and ducked the paperweight she chucked at him. Kevin looked somewhat gratified that, in some manner, his dad -- mom -- person? Other parental figure -- gave a shit.

Charlie’d managed to create suitable credentials for Channing but she hadn’t counted on the other woman wanting to return entirely to her old life -- _sans_ Kevin, although Kevin couldn’t really blame her and didn’t seem to hold any hard feelings over it. She wanted to go back to school, and Charlie spent half the day organizing that. Apparently Jessie’d reunited Channing with her family last night, which is where she’d slunk off to. That over, the other girl wanted to go back to school, and the summer semester at her school in Whitepool, Michigan was just about to start. 

“I need to train someone else to do this,” Charlie complained, hacking into the school’s records and resuscitating Channing’s place there. “It’s like dial-a-hacker around here and I _never_ get a break.”

“Are we overworking you?” Castiel asked, coming around a corner with coffee. “I know we place a great many burdens on you, Charlie, but --”

“Ah, no,” Charlie said, waving her hand tiredly and entering another command with the other. “I don’t _dislike_ doing this, I just feel like I’m _expected_ to, you know?”

“You can stop whenever you want,” Sam said, quietly, leaning toward her. “I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do, Charlie, and I’m not half-bad at hacking myself.”

“ _Please_ ,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes at Sam. “You’re okay for a _civilian_ , I guess.”

Sam laughed as Charlie continued. “You guys would be lost without me, admit it.”

“Nothing to admit,” Sam said, shaking his head. “It’s the honest-to-God truth, Charlie, and don’t think we don’t appreciate it.”

Cas set Charlie’s coffee in front of her and nodded firmly. “Absolutely. You are extremely talented and we value you for your contributions, Charlene.”

“ _Eugh_ , don’t call me that,” Charlie said, shuddering. She sipped the coffee and sighed, delightedly. “Thanks, Cas. This is perfect.”

“One of these days, you’re going to explain how you get the espresso machine _and_ coffee maker to like you so much,” Sam said, fervently, sipping the cappuccino that Castiel had just placed in front of him. 

“This did not come from the kitchen,” Cas said, shrugging. Then he smiled, delighted. “I went to Italy. I was feeling a bit restless. I feel the trip did me some good, and I could bring back treats for my friends.”

“Family,” Charlie and Sam both corrected at the same time. They smiled as Cas went slightly bashful and awkward.

“Family, then,” Cas said. Then he shifted, frowning, and disappeared.

“Kind of annoying that he can do that again,” Sam said. Then he took up the easier part of Charlie’s job -- getting Channing school supplies overnighted to her new dorm room.

It was less easy when the woman herself decided to take over the clothing purchases. After that, Sam gave it up as a lost cause and retired with a newly-returned Castiel (who was staying silent about his sudden departure earlier, which honestly worried Sam) to his room, where the two of them decided to watch Game of Thrones together.

**\+ + + + +**

Meg returned just as Jessie disappeared to take Kevin and Channing to Michigan. Kevin had promised to return, which is probably the only reason Linda didn’t insist on going with. Instead, she threw herself into cleaning the three rooms that Pastor Jim, Jake, and Sarah had occupied. After three hours she’d returned the rooms to their near-hotel-like blank state, and she looked to be worrying herself into an actual phone call, when Jessie came back with Kevin in tow.

“What, a father can’t spend time with her son?” Jessie said, watching as Linda fretted over Kevin. “Calm down, Linda, you might have noticed that Kevin’s kind of a badass? He can take care of himself. Plus, _I_ was there.”

“Every step of the way,” Kevin muttered, balefully. Linda glared at Jessie and strong-armed Kevin down the hall.

Meg raised an eyebrow at the father comment, but otherwise said nothing. It was, to the best of Sam’s knowledge, the only mention Jessie had made about her true nature to her girlfriend, and Meg didn’t seem inclined to pursue it.

Of course, Meg also wouldn’t tell them _her_ real name, so maybe she figured turnabout was fair play.

**\+ + + + +**

The rest of July was dead, by their standards. Sam took a single case during the time period, and that was only because it was a simple haunting in nearby Hastings; otherwise, they scanned the news and he called other hunting contacts in on hunts. Word about Dean’s transition into a demon seemed to have reached the supernatural community, but not hunters, and Sam was only regarded with the usual level of hunter paranoia rather than the extreme suspicion he’d suffered during the Apocalypse. 

There did seem to be a slight uptick in demonic activity, and Sam wasn’t sure who to blame that on -- Dean or Crowley. But Jessie had been less forthcoming than was usual (which was saying something) in regards to her unease over the former King, and Sam was still in the dark. In the meantime, he’d taken to researching as much as he could about powerful, continent-wide spells, but so far he’d only stumbled across one that would make everyone suddenly burst into song. He filed that away somewhere obscure on the off-chance that Dean ever got cured, because he was absolutely certain that his brother would do _exactly_ that.

Jody kept in touch and had come back once more with another page from the Book of the Damned, but it had absolutely nothing to do with the spell Sam was researching. 

Castiel and Jessie both disappeared at intervals, presumably on heavenly business, although Sam was quick to note that they never disappeared together. Victor, Charlie, and Linda were deemed the least-likely to be recognized by demons and other supernatural beings and made regular runs for supplies, although they always left well-armed.

It was during one such run that Castiel commented to Sam, “It is odd, isn’t it, that so often Yeshua has errands to run while Linda is procuring supplies.”

Sam double-checked, but Meg seemed to be in the room that she and Jessie had both started living out of, previously only Jessie’s; Meg’s room remained in its former state, unoccupied, as no one had the balls to clean it in case everything went tits-up between the two.

Kevin was glued to the TV Charlie had installed in the living area, xbox controller in hand. His new addiction was a game called Destiny, which was apparently never-ending if his sleepless state was anything to go by, and Benny was looking up something for a case Sam wanted to send to Tamara, who seemed to be operating out of Florida and Georgia these days. In fact, that was a trend he was noticing -- hunters staking out geographical areas rather than roaming. He figured they were all just getting old.

So he turned back toward Castiel and said, “Odd, how?”

“Odd as in, she always returns just shortly before they do,” Cas said. Sam connected the dots and grinned.

“Do you think she has a soft spot for Linda?”

“The two were romantically involved,” Cas acknowledged. “But I actually feel as if she’s looking out for _everyone_ ; I believe she’s forming attachments to us, the core group that resides here.”

And reside they all did -- even Cas had picked out a room of his own, number seven, even though he required no sleep and was often gone doing whatever it was archangels did. 

“Huh.”

“Obviously, she’s most fond of Meg,” Cas continued. “And she was always somewhat fond of me, but I think she actually _likes_ us.”

“She said she could kill us,” Sam replied.

“Yes, but she’s gotten a chance to know us,” Cas countered. “I have firsthand experience with how Winchesters can grow on a being.”

Sam chuckled. “I think we’re a love-’em-or-hate-’em breed.” He didn’t miss how Castiel included everyone in the bunker -- Kevin, Linda, Benny, Meg, Charlie, Victor, even Castiel himself -- as a Winchester, even though Sam was the only one by name.

“That is unfortunately true,” Cas admitted, and they were interrupted by Jessie reappearing in the living room. 

“Are they on their way back, then?” Sam asked, casually, and Jessie shrugged, equally casual and not about to ‘fess up to actual human _feelings_.

“Probably,” she said, looking down at her phone, which was in her hand. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

About ten minutes later, the trio pulled into the garage in a box truck that Charlie had reluctantly purchased the week before, because regular U-haul rentals could be traced. Cas gave Sam a significant look, and the whole group of them -- even Kevin -- leant their hands to unload and put away the supplies. 

Charlie had just finished stashing the last of the laundry detergent when a phone rang.

Sam blinked and looked around; he didn’t recognize the ringtone. He glanced at Charlie.

“Don’t look at _me_ ,” she said, looking affronted. “My ringtone would never sound like an actual phone. That’s like _sacrilege_. God gave us the ability to personalize our ringtones and I’m damn well gonna do it.”

Jessie rolled her eyes at this, but the group of them started searching for the phone, because it wasn’t any of theirs, including the burner phones Sam had set up.

Finally they figured out where the ringing was coming from -- a _landline_ phone that was sitting atop a desk in the bunker itself, in what Dean had called the War Room. In Dean’s defense, the room contained an awful lot of maps and even thumb tacks pinned to various locations, which in his boredom Sam had figured out related to demonic omens from the 40’s and 50’s. The phone was even bright red and rotary.

Gingerly, Sam picked the handle up off the cradle and put it to his ear. “Hello?” he asked.

“ _Finally_ ,” a familiar voice said. “I was wondering if you guys had ditched the headquarters when Abaddon showed up.”

There was a beat and then Sam remembered the name of Abaddon’s vessel. “Josie?” he asked.

“That’s me,” she said. “Look, I’d love to chat but I had to scrounge to get enough change to make a long-distance call because that line’s so old it won’t take collect calls, and I don’t have a lot of time. I woke up in New York City about three days ago, and I have no idea what’s going on. Last thing I remember is watching your brother kill me.”

Sam raised his eyebrow and turned toward Jessie, who raised hers right back.

“Josie Sands,” Sam said. “Abaddon’s meatsuit. One of yours?”

Jessie looked delighted. “Yep,” she said, bolting from the room. Probably to add Josie’s name to her whiteboard.

“What do you mean, one of yours?” Josie asked, sounding panicked. 

“It’s a long story that you do not apparently have time for,” Sam said. “What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s just --” and hearing Abaddon’s voice sound so small was a little off-putting for Sam. “First, I’m alone and broke in a huge city in a time I don’t belong in, so that’s kind of terrifying in its own right. But also, something’s going on here. I can’t tell if it’s because I was possessed by a Knight of Hell, or because I was a Man of Letters, but -- there’s more demons here than usual.”

“What do you mean, than usual?” Sam demanded. 

“Large city like this, you’d expect a large number of demons,” Josie said, trying to get the words out in a rush. There was a clicking noise and she swore, creatively. “I’m almost out of time.”

“Here, give me the number on the front of the phone,” Sam said, jumping for a pen and paper on the desk. “I can call you back.”

Josie did, and just in time, because the call forcibly ended a few seconds later.

Sam ran to the living area, everyone else trailing behind him, and he grabbed his phone, dialed the number Josie had given him, and put it on speaker.

“Oh, thank God that worked,” she said, sounding fervent. 

“Look, first I want to make sure you’re okay,” Sam said. “Where have you been staying?”

There was a pause, and in a small voice Josie said, “Well, the first night I was able to get a room at a women’s shelter, but I don’t have any identification so none of the other shelters have been letting me in. There’s an alley that’s mostly safe, a lot of women and their kids stay there, and we keep a watch rota so no one gets raped or mugged. It’s cold sometimes because of the ocean, but we’re not in specific danger. Some of the women have, um, food stamps? I think they called them? And they share with everyone.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Charlie gasped. She sat down and pulled a laptop -- Sam’s -- toward her and began tapping out commands. “How many women?”

“I dunno,” Josie said, confused. “It varies. Usually around twenty? Sometimes less, sometimes more.”

Charlie made a sort of disgusted grunting noise and started doing -- _whatever_ \-- on the computer, and Josie continued.

“Anyway, that’s not what I called about -- I mean, it’s part of what I called about, but it’s not the main part. New York City is _huge_. Bigger than I remember, for sure. And so you’d expect a somewhat larger-than-normal contingent of demons, too. And I’m not sure why, but I can just -- _tell_ when someone is possessed. And there’s a lot more than should be.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel demanded.

“Who is that?” Josie said, confused.

“Castiel. An archangel. Look, keep going,” Sam urged, and Josie faltered slightly but kept up her story.

“Oh. Um. Hi. Anyway, generally speaking you’d get a twenty-humans-for-every-demon ratio, maybe slightly more, in a big city. As far as I can tell, it’s edging closer and closer to five-to-one, and that’s a little alarming. Something’s about to happen here, and this is a huge city. I read a bit every day, trying to catch up, and I’m not sure what’s about to occur, but I think it’s going to rival the September 11th attacks. Magically speaking.”

There was a silence; Victor swore quietly to himself and Kevin pulled up Charlie’s search algorithm on her iPad.

“She’s right,” Kevin said. “I don’t know why it didn’t ping us, maybe because there’s so much demonic activity _already_ in large cities already, but it looks like omens have been increasing over the last few weeks to the point that there are _multiple daily occurrences_ that might be demon-related.”

There was a brief silence and then Linda spoke.

“Well, shit,” she said. Which about summed it up, to be honest.

“Josie,” Charlie said, speaking as she looked up, finally, from the computer. “I just bought an apartment building -- condos, really -- on Ninth Street. It’s got almost 40 units. By the way, you fell through the cracks, government-wise, so I just created an identity for you based on your old one. You’re still Josie Sands and you have the same SSN. I updated the birth certificate by like fifty years but yeah, that’s taken care of. Um, you’re the owner, so I just need to get a few things sorted and you guys will have a place to sleep tonight, okay? Escrow closes in about an hour because I am _amazing_ and outbid the last person, but you’ll need to get to the bank to sign the papers.” She looked over at Castiel. “If I whip up her documents can you take them to her?”

“I -- yes?” Castiel said. 

“Oh God,” Josie said over the phone, sounding faint. “I’m about to meet an archangel.”

“It’s not as impressive as it seems,” Meg said, flicking a wadded-up piece of paper and pegging Castiel square in the forehead with it. She was sitting at one of the tables, her booted feet propped up on it, like Abaddon’s vessel coming back to life didn’t faze her at all. Of course, she hadn’t really been around for most of that. Cas frowned at her. 

“I’m setting up a bank account,” Charlie informed the room. Sam was kind of amazed. “Two, actually -- one to pay for the building and one so you guys can get some stuff. Clothes, food, furniture, shit like that. Alright? And -- _yes_. The debit card will be waiting for you at the bank when you go to sign the escrow papers. Cas’ll bring everything you need. Including some cash, cuz you’ll probably want to pick up some nicer clothes; I think the bank thinks you’re some sort of multi-billionaire out to rent the units, from the emails I’m getting.”

“Okay,” Josie said, even more faintly. 

“I really don’t want to teleport to New York City,” Kevin interjected into the conversation. He glanced at Jessie and Cas. “No offense, but Dean was right. Fucks with your bowels.”

Jessie snorted and Cas looked almost offended anyway. “Well,” Jessie said. “I’ve been wanting to go on a drive for a while. I’ve been feeling kind of cabin-feverish.”

“It’ll take us about two days to get to you,” Sam said. “But we’re coming, okay? And Cas’ll be by with what you need in a bit. Just hang tight. He’ll be able to find you.”

“How?” Josie asked, actually curious now. She had, after all, been a Man of Letters.

“In approximately one hour, you’ll want to pray to me,” Castiel said. There was a silence, and then -- 

“Pray?” 

“To me, directly,” Cas repeated, patiently. There was a second of silence and then Cas continued, “Yes, exactly like that.”

“Alright,” Josie said. She sounded like she was going to fall over. “One hour from now.”

“Approximately,” Castiel said. 

“Right.”

Sam hung up with Josie and then swung to look at Charlie.

“ _What_?” she demanded, still typing, even though she was looking at Sam. “The money’s coming from the Koch brothers, they won’t even _notice_ it, and I couldn’t let those women sit there under threat of rape every night. There’s _kids_ , Sam!”

“I’m not complaining,” he said. “Just -- an entire apartment building? _Really_?”

“What, did you want me to buy them an _empty warehouse_?” Charlie demanded, pausing in her typing. “Because if you _did_ , Sam Winchester, you and I are going to have _words_ \--”

Sam laughed and shook his head, but it was midday and they had a day or two of driving ahead of them, so he just rose and headed toward his room. “Everyone get packed up, we’re off to New York in two hours.”

**\+ + + + +**

Dean was the King of Hell. He’d held the title for about a month on Earth, and about a decade below. He’d spent a lot of it topside, though, and it was about time he put in some real administrative effort into his regime. 

But this just _wasn’t doing it_.

He tried to summon up some of the pleasure he’d felt back then, with Alistair, and -- _nothing_. He shoved a red-hot poker into a woman’s abdomen and she screamed and he was _bathed_ in her blood.

And he was _bored_. Actually, a little repulsed, as he shook off a bit of intestine. 

“Do you require anything else, sire?” Hastur asked, bowing.

Dean shrugged and handed the poker to her. “Finish up here, I’m gonna go check on the contracts from the club,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Hastur said, sounding _actually_ delighted to be delegated Dean’s chores. 

He did what he said he was gonna do -- the club really _was_ a brilliant idea, and he’d ordered another constructed on the other side of the country ( _not_ in Reno) because it was bringing in souls like nobody’s business -- and then found Raum, who was always down for trying to wear their King out.

Even _that_ did nothing. Oh, sure, he _came_ , buried to the hilt in Raum’s borrowed meatsuit (still the gorgeous black man, although they’d chosen to get rid of the ‘locs and had instead shaved their head), but he didn’t get the feeling of _satisfaction_ he should have from it. 

Dean was having a _bad day_. Nothing more. This he assured himself of, as he strode into the throne room and flung himself onto its namesake. 

There was no way that Jessie chick was right. No way he was losing his edge. He was just as badass as ever -- more even, because hey, King of Hell. 

It was just an off day.

**\+ + + + +**

They had to carpool, of course; _everyone_ was in on this one, because it might be big, so they all packed duffels and divided themselves into two cars: The Impala and Jessie’s Chevelle.

In a move that surprised the hell out of Sam, Linda and Kevin immediately chose to travel with Jessie. Maybe they figured they were safer in the hands of the Son of God. Meg also went with Jessie, which Sam had expected, and the Chevelle was smaller than the Impala, so that left him, Victor, Benny, Cas, and Charlie squeezing into the Impala.

“I can simply fly there,” Castiel offered.

“There’s plenty of room in the car,” Sam replied. “And honestly, I’d feel better if we kept together as much as possible.”

“I might have to leave occasionally,” Cas reminded him. “On business.”

“Be that as it may, I’d really prefer to have you around if something bad goes down on the way there,” Sam said. Which Cas accepted was probably for the best, and he eventually agreed to the arrangement, on the condition that he got to sit, “shotgun.”

Sam chuckled.

Charlie wasn’t exactly delighted to be crammed in between Victor and Benny, but the Impala’s back seat was pretty roomy so it wasn’t like they were fighting for space.

Cas, worried about communication between the two cars, fixed up two ham radio systems he dug up from the bowels of the Men of Letters storage closets to be pretty much constantly on. Jessie spotted him doing it and managed to do something to it that would filter out music and only focus on their voices, which Sam was _extraordinarily_ grateful for. As far as he could tell, Jessie had similar musical tastes to Dean, although she branched out more often, and her favorite song was Kashmir, by Led Zeppelin, which she’d been known to play on repeat for _hours_.

The trip was mostly uneventful, until about an hour outside of Toledo, where they were staying for the night. Charlie had booked them rooms at a nice hotel, suites really, insisting that they absolutely _could not_ stay at the shitty motels the Winchesters usually favored.

“I like _not_ getting STD’s when I’m not actually sleeping with anyone,” Charlie said, forcefully.

“ _A-fucking-men_ ,” Jessie’s voice crackled over the radio.

Dark had long since closed in, and they could actually see the lights of Toledo, when it happened.

“So what did that mean?” Meg asked. “When Sam asked if Josie was ‘one of yours’?”

Everyone in the Impala went dead silent. Cas and Sam glanced at each other.

“Uh,” Jessie said. There was more silence and then she said, “Well, it’s a long story. Can’t it wait?”

“Please, dear _God_ , let it wait,” Kevin muttered. The radio picked it up nonetheless. 

“Near as I can tell, we’ve got an hour to kill,” Meg said, sounding vaguely threatening.

There was more silence, stiff and uncomfortable. Sam could see the Chevelle in front of him, and in his headlights, he could tell that no one had moved an inch.

Finally, Jessie spoke. “Well, uh, you know how I can like...teleport, and shit?”

“Mmmhmm?” Meg said. It was a very blank sort of acknowledgement, and Sam felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “This have anything to do with how you’re _somehow_ Kevin’s dad?”

Sam winced. So did Cas.

“Uh, yeah, kind of.” There was a pause. “So, there’s this thing. Um. All prophets, or potential prophets, are the children of the Son of God.”

There was more silence, and then Meg spoke up, sounding deadly.

“You mean to tell me I’ve been dating the motherfucking _Son of God?_ ” she hissed.

“Yehoshuah of Nazereth, at your service,” Jessie said, weakly. 

“You fucking _asshole_!” Meg exclaimed. There was the sound of a fist hitting fabric, and the Chevelle swerved wildly in front of them.

“I didn’t think you’d take it so bad,” Jessie responded. 

“That’s a hell of a bomb to drop on _me_ , of all people,” Meg retorted. 

“What the hell does that mean, _on you_?” Jessie exclaimed. 

“This needs to stop, _please_ let this stop, this is so _weird_ ,” Kevin muttered.

“I can hear that, stop praying,” Jessie demanded. 

“You’re telling me you can’t _tell_?” Meg asked, and her voice had gone very quiet -- hurt, almost.

“I can’t tell who _any_ demon was,” Jessie replied. “Your faces always change.” A silence and then, “But I knew you, I think. At some point.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you _did_ ,” Meg replied. “I was one of your most devout followers. I _believed_ in you, and you just fucking _disappeared_ on us, and you came back and then you went again and _fuck_ you, you _asshole_!” Her voice had been getting progressively louder and then the car swerved again; Sam could just barely make out Meg punching Jessie, hard, in the shoulder, from the rear window of the Chevelle.

“What?” Jessie gasped.

“Mary! _Mary_! My name was Mary, you _dickhole_ , Mary of _Magdalene_ , and I trusted you, _loved_ you, and you just _abandoned_ us!” Meg was shouting now, and her punching hadn’t ceased, although the car had stopped swerving. “You abandoned us when we needed you most and you never! Came! _Back_!” There was sudden and dead silence after this; Sam could see that the passenger seat of the Chevelle was empty now. 

There was silence.

“That could have gone better,” Jessie said, voice strained.

“I told you to be honest with her,” Cas said. He sounded angry. “This could have been avoided had you known all of this ahead of time.”

“I’m sorry, I had no idea that my wife had _sold her soul to a demon_ ,” Jessie hissed.

“Wait, what? That Dan Brown shit was _true_?” Sam interrupted.

Cas sighed and massaged his temples. “They were never married in a church,” he said. “But they considered themselves married and took vows in front of the apostles. After Yeshua was crucified, Mary spent several years looking for him, but she’d made a deal prior to meeting him and her deal came due. I believe it was to save her brother from a disease that you know as cancer.”

“She never told me,” and Jessie sounded totally broken-hearted. “I should have known, I could have taken care of it.”

“She did not follow you to get out of her deal,” Cas said, admonishing. “She followed you because she believed in you and loved you.”

Silence reigned for a solid two minutes after that statement, until Kevin spoke up. 

“Can I switch cars? _Please_?”

**\+ + + + +**

To everyone’s surprise, Meg was waiting for them at the hotel Charlie had chosen. She seemed considerably calmer, although she pointedly did not speak a single word to Jessie as she helped unload the cars at valet. 

The penthouse suites that Charlie booked each came with two separate rooms -- one with a king bed and one with two queens. She’d figured that the ladies would take one penthouse and the guys the other. Benny didn’t sleep much and had offered to take the pull-out couch, leaving Sam with a king-size bed to himself (Cas didn’t sleep and would actually be taking off to Heaven for the night to do something-or-other) and Victor and Kevin with the two queens. Obviously, Charlie had intended on Linda and herself each taking a queen and Jessie and Meg sharing the king. 

Meg immediately stalked to the king room and locked the door behind her. Jessie sighed and said, “I can take the pull-out, no big.”

“You fucked up pretty royally,” Charlie agreed. “So you should probably get the punishment. Although it’s a luxury hotel so I guess even the pull-out is probably comfortable.”

The suites had connecting doors, so they opened them up so they could hear each other if anything went down, and Charlie ordered room service, even peeking her head into the room Meg had claimed as her own and getting her preference. The demon herself made an appearance once the food arrived, interacting with everyone else but pointedly not speaking to Jessie, and the Son of God was very quiet, moving as little as possible like she was trying not to attract attention.

After she’d eaten her fill, Meg stalked back toward her room, grabbing her duffel on the way there, and only emerged to take a quick shower before retreating back to what Charlie and Kevin mutually decided to call her “Fortress of Solitude.”

“She has had a pretty big shock to the system,” Sam said, empathizing with the demon. “I don’t think she’s overreacting.”

“Oh hell no, she isn’t,” Charlie agreed. Kevin made a noise of assent, as well, and Jessie hunched in on herself even further. “But I like the name, so it stays.”

**\+ + + + +**

It was four in the morning and Jessie couldn’t sleep.

She couldn’t sleep, knowing the woman she’d pledged herself to back when she’d thought herself mostly just a carpenter was sleeping in the next room over. Her next life, the one after she’d been Jesus Christ, once she’d remembered who she was, she’d spent a lot of time trying to find Mary. She’d been reborn only a year after her death, in what was now Germany; a girl, she’d been sold to pay off her parents’ debts and bundled off to the Middle East before the age of ten, and had escaped within six months. She’d searched everywhere, all over Jerusalem and beyond, even coming into contact with some of her old apostles -- none of them believed her at first, but eventually Paul had broken down and told her the truth. Mary of Magdalene, his wife in spirit and love, had disappeared about a year and a half after he himself had died. 

No one knew where she was, not her family or friends. She’d just disappeared, like she’d never existed.

Jessie had spent the three lives after that -- one born and two via vessels -- trying to find the answer to her missing lover. She’d even begged Gabriel, after encountering him hiding amongst the Old Gods, to check Heaven and see if she was there, but he’d hidden himself so thoroughly that unless he wanted to reveal himself he’d be denied entry to Heaven. She’d considered calling Castiel down, but she herself had tried to hide from the Heavenly Host, only making contact with God when he demanded she sire or birth a child in his service, and otherwise keeping away from all things holy.

The question was answered now, thousands of years later. Mary’s soul had been damned before he’d even met her, and yet she’d still followed him faithfully, so fervently believing that what he said was true that she never bothered to ask for a miracle.

Nowadays, Jessie could tell when someone’s soul had been tainted by a demon deal, and knew it for what it was. It was now that she realized the reason she was so fond of demons was because they all reminded her, somewhat, of Mary -- they had the same sort of soul-feel, the same sort of smell. 

And she’d finally found her, and Jessie had ruined _everything_.

She couldn’t sleep, and tossed and turned on the admittedly very comfortable pull-out bed for several hours before she finally got up and crossed the living room, quietly knocking on Meg’s bedroom door.

There was a minute of quiet, although Jessie could hear Meg shifting in the room, before the door opened.

“I don’t have the right to ask it of you,” Jessie said, softly. “But I’d like a chance to explain before we kiss this off.”

“I’m mad,” Meg warned.

“You have every right to be,” Jessie agreed. “I should have told you who I was the moment I met you, or at least when I knew you could be trusted. Everyone else knew and they told me I should tell you and I ignored them. I’m not infallible, which I hope you’ve picked up on in the years since we were married.”

Meg snorted but opened the door wider and gestured for Jessie to enter. Jessie did; the room contained two reading chairs, two nightstands, a dresser, and a king-sized bed. She chose to sit on a reading chair, facing the bed; Meg sat, cross-legged, at the foot of the bed.

“I did come back, eventually,” Jessie began. “I had to wait to be reborn, to remember, and I did find my way back, but you’d gone already.”

Meg just stared at her, so she continued.

“I should have told you. I just -- everyone treats me differently once they realize who I am. Every time I’ve told someone, ever since I was crucified; assuming they _believe_ me, they treat me differently. And while everyone at the Winchester’s bunker is doing a pretty good job of _not_ doing that, it was -- I dunno, this is a shitty excuse, but even though you knew I could do things, like blast demons and fly, you didn’t treat me any differently than you did anyone else. I’ve never, not in all of my lifetimes, had that. It felt... it felt normal. I felt normal. For the first time since God talked to me, I felt normal. And I didn’t want to give it up.”

Meg arched her eyebrow. “That’s a pretty shitty apology.”

“That wasn’t the apology,” Jessie said, rolling her eyes. “That was the explanation.”

Meg -- Mary? -- didn’t look too terribly impressed. “ _Are_ you going to apologize?”

“Yes,” Jessie said. She inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled again. “I don’t think I’d take it back, selfish as it is, because you gave me an incredible feeling, this just -- I don’t know that you have anything to compare it to. I’d never trade these last few weeks of you not knowing for anything, because I have never, not in over five thousand years, been able to experience that. But I still should have told you. I’m sorry I didn’t, but I honestly can’t say I’d do it any differently.”

“ _Five_ thousand?” Meg said, blinking. Then -- “You can go back in time?”

Jessie chuckled; that was so quintessentially _Mary_ that she was surprised she hadn’t figured it out sooner. “You picked it up sooner than Sam and Charlie did.”

Meg swallowed and looked probably as close to tears as Jessie had ever seen her (in this incarnation, anyway). “I don’t want to kiss this off,” she admitted. “I didn’t know why I was so drawn to you -- you seemed human but you could do amazing, angelic things. You reminded me of _you_ so much. I can’t _believe_ I didn’t connect the dots sooner; maybe I was just as happy not knowing. But I can’t keep doing this if you’re going to lie to me. I trusted you, all those years ago, and you left me hanging.”

“I didn’t mean to do poorly by you,” Jessie said. She stood and carefully made her way over to the bed, sitting next to Meg, letting her legs dangle off the edge. “I thought my father would bring me back, permanently. I thought I knew what his plan was, and that’s why I offered myself up. I thought I’d get to stay.”

“You make it hard to hate you,” Meg said, and actual tears were dripping down her cheeks now. Jessie would walk on spikes if she could never see Meg make that expression again.

“You didn’t tell me,” Jessie whispered. She turned to face Meg, and Meg turned back toward her. “You never once told me you’d made a deal to save your brother.”

“I didn’t follow you for salvation,” Meg said, closing her eyes. “I followed you because I believed in you, and I loved you.”

It looked like it took a lot for her to admit that, and Jessie took her face in her hands and laughed softly.

“That’s what Castiel said,” Jessie replied. She leaned forward, touching her forehead to Meg’s. “I looked for you for three lifetimes; I tried to call in a favor with an archangel. If I’d known, I could have fixed it, I could have --”

“I wouldn’t have allowed it,” Meg said, her eyes shooting open. “You _know_ I wouldn’t have. I made a bargain and my word was my bond.”

Jessie sighed. “Yeah, I guess you probably wouldn’t have let me.”

They were quiet for a moment before Meg spoke again.

“Are you going to lie to me anymore?”

Jessie winced. “Probably. I have a lot of secrets, and some of them aren’t mine to tell. A lot of them will probably be lies of omission. I am not perfect and I have things I have to do that might involve some really shitty stuff. I wish I could say otherwise.”

Meg sighed. “I was worried you were going to say something like that. I don’t want to end this -- I don’t want us to not be together, especially not now that we’ve finally found each other. But I don’t know if I can accept that, especially after everything I’ve gone through the last few years.”

“I’ve read the Winchester gospels,” Jessie said, wryly. “You’ve had a rough go of it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m emotionally fragile and shit,” Meg said, putting her tough front back on. Then she shoed Jessie toward the door with her hands. “I’m exhausted, and I don’t have an answer for you right now. I need to think on it.”

“Hey, that’s better than an outright no,” Jessie said, a crooked smile lighting her face. 

“It’s not a yes, either, asshole,” Meg said, glowering. She actually looked a little annoyed and so Jessie stood and booked it out of the room. 

Her sleep wasn’t sound, but around five, Jessie finally managed to achieve the state.

**\+ + + + +**

“I’ll need a lot more souls than are owed to me at the moment,” Crowley said to his mother, who was pouring him another glass of scotch. “This spell you want me to perform --”

“ _Us_ to perform,” Rowena said, smiling. “It has to take place simultaneously on opposite ends of the country.”

“ _Us_ , then,” Crowley said, irritable. “I’m not powerful enough to manage it on my own, especially as I no longer have access to Hell’s cache of souls. I only have a handful of contracts that belong solely to me; I’d need more power.”

“That can be arranged,” Rowena said. She grinned, impishly. “You’re still a crossroads demon, are you not?”

“Technically,” Crowley said. “In name only, mind.”

“Yes but, you have a small army of other crossroads demons looking to you. Their contracts are yours.”

“Not many of them were powerful enough to be allowed to make deals for their own benefit,” Crowley replied. He almost resented his past-self for neglecting his most loyal of followers. “I think between them I might have fifteen, twenty more souls at my disposal, nothing more.”

Bela, who had been quietly listening at the door, chose this moment to enter, a vial of dragon’s blood clenched in her fist. “I have it,” she said, letting excitement leak from her eyes.

“Oh, _wonderful_ ,” Rowena said, grabbing it from her. “You got extra. This will do just the trick, Fergus.”

Crowley raised his eyebrow as he sipped on his drink. These days the scotch tasted off; he’d have to speak to one of his underlings about a new shipment. It almost left him feeling... weak.

“Dragon’s blood is a potent amplifier,” Rowena said, planting her hands on her hips. “Honestly, Fergus, did you listen to _nothing_ I tried to teach you?”

Crowley blinked at her, confused for no reason he could pinpoint, and she tutted at him. “That’s alright, Fergus, it was so long ago.” She crouched at his side. “A drop of dragon’s blood at the right moment, with the right incantation, will supercharge those souls, and the souls in New York, right up for you. I’ll make sure of it; you’ll have all the power you need when the time comes.”

“Right,” Crowley said, shaking his head. He felt fuzzy. He gestured to Bela.

“Sire,” Bela said, kneeling at his feet. 

“Get whatever else my mother needs,” he said.

“Two flight feathers from an angel. The higher the choir, the better,” Rowena said. “And they have to be from the _same_ angel, mind.”

Bela looked slightly shocked, but she nodded. “I believe I can acquire that,” she said. She headed toward the door.

“Oh, and Bela,” Crowley said. Bela turned toward him, blinking in astonishment. “See that I get a new order of scotch. I think this batch is has gone off somehow.”

“Right,” Bela said, frowning. She glanced at Rowena, who nodded, and then turned back toward the door.

“Are you not feeling well, lovey?” Rowena asked, putting her hand to Crowley’s forehead. 

“Just a bit off. It’s the scotch, I think they added salt or something,” Crowley replied, batting her hand away.

“We’ll just make sure to fix that. I’ll check the next shipment personally,” she promised, smiling. In her pocket, a vial of dragon’s blood clinked against an empty one -- one that had only recently contained human blood, spelled clear.

**\+ + + + +**

The next morning, Meg elected to ride in the Impala with Sam; without anyone saying anything, Charlie took Meg’s seat in the Chevelle.

“Still fighting?” Sam asked.

“Deliberating,” Meg replied, going silent from her seat in the back. 

It set the tone for the day; nearly everyone was quiet, engaging themselves in some sort of solo activity. Yesterday there had been group laughter and joking back and forth, between each other and both cars. Today, it was just wind, whistling past.

They stopped for lunch in Youngstown, Ohio, and the mood lightened slightly with everyone looking directly at each other, but everyone noticed that Meg and Jessie didn’t really talk much. Something had gone down that made them slightly more at ease with each other, but all was _not_ forgiven.

The second half of the trip was better, more light-hearted, because in the bathroom of the Denny’s in Youngsdown Kevin had found the absolute _worst_ novel by a Male Author anyone had ever read -- he decided to call it the Manic Pixie Dream Girl: Ultimate Edition -- and had decided to read selections of it aloud to entertain the masses. Sam nearly crashed the Impala in Bellefonte, he was laughing so hard. 

“Oh my god, this is worse than My Immortal,” Charlie said, laughing hysterically.

“Oh shit, I forgot about that,” Jessie exclaimed. 

“What’s My Immortal?” Meg asked, curious.

“It’s Harry Potter fanfiction and it’s so bad that it’s _good_ ,” Charlie said, eagerly, and apparently she had it on one of her electronic devices, because she started reading aloud. “‘Hi, my name’ -- by the way guys, there’s no comma there, I’m just inserting them as I go along -- ‘Hi, my name is Ebony Dark’ness’ -- there’s an apostrophe there but I don’t know how to pronounce that --”

“I think ‘dark-ness,’” Kevin said, through laughter, placing heavy emphasis on the second syllable.

“I think the apostrophe would indicate that the K is silent,” Jessie said.

“No, I don’t think that’s where they were going with this,” Charlie said. “Look, just let me finish a sentence. ‘Hi, my name is Ebony Dark’Ness Dementia Raven Way...’”

**\+ + + + +**

They pulled up to the building Charlie had bought for Josie at around eight at night, and Castiel had to fly inside, let Josie know where they were, and then fly back out and wait with the others, which seemed to annoy him more than anything.

The building had a locked underground garage, which Josie unlocked for them to park in; she seemed flustered to suddenly own a multi-family condominium complex, but was handling it pretty well considering. She’d only had the building for about 24 hours but already they’d filled most of the apartments with furniture and obtained food and toiletries for the women and their families. Some of the women were addicted to drugs, which Josie was upset about, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn them out after they’d helped protect her in turn.

The penthouse at the top of the building was obviously supposed to belong to whoever owned the building or had the most money, because it took up the entire floor and was _massive_. However, Josie didn’t feel comfortable with so many windows around her (she didn’t, after all, have an archangel or the Son of God to protect her) and so she decided to reserve that particular floor for their group, whenever they needed a place to stay in New York City. 

“Sweet!” Charlie said, checking it out. It had been filled with furniture as well; the account Charlie had set Josie up with had been very well-stocked, courtesy the Koch brothers, and that meant that one of the women who’d been relatively successful prior to the recession had been able to help Josie hire people to move the furniture in and arrange it tastefully. A lot had been accomplished in 24 hours. 

The majority of the condos in the complex were two-or-three bedroom affairs, with a few one-bedrooms down below. The penthouse featured two offices, a library, three bathrooms as well as a jacuzzi (on the _balcony_ of the 15th floor that the penthouse occupied) that probably needed to be replaced (but it still worked and didn’t leak, so Charlie enthusiastically endorsed the idea of using it at some point), a ridiculously large living room/dining room, a _gorgeous_ kitchen that Sam was pretty sure Dean, back when he’d been human, would have shit himself over, and a whopping _six_ bedrooms.

Cas didn’t need sleep, and Benny only a little bit; Jessie also explained that she’d slept the night before and probably wouldn’t tonight because of it, which meant that there were just enough rooms for everyone. If Jessie or Benny needed a catnap, they could catch one on the couch in the living room or the fold-away chair in the first office.

Jessie and Cas filled the night with warding the ever-loving _shit_ out of the building to keep out demons and other supernatural creatures (present company excluded, of course). Cas even did a spot-check to make sure none of the women staying there were currently possessed, although they assumed Josie would have known. 

By the time everyone woke up the next morning, Josie’s new apartment building was the best-warded building on the eastern seaboard.

**\+ + + + +**

Breakfast was more of a lunch, delivery Thai from down the street, because the group as a whole was eager to check out the demonic situation and didn’t want to fuss around with cooking. Jessie spent a great deal of her time on the phone, as did Meg, both speaking in coded speech that the other people they were talking to apparently understood. By three in the afternoon Jessie was pretty sure she had her answer, and it wasn’t pretty.

“I’ve had Bela spying on Crowley,” she told the group, bluntly. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at her incredulously. “As far as Crowley knows, Bela escaped Hell when Dean took over and has a vendetta against him. He’s been using her as a sort of supernatural acquisitions specialist.”

“That clicks with what I’ve heard,” Meg said, tapping the top of the closed burner flip-phone she’d used to make her calls. “Word on the street is that Crowley’s planning something to get more power for a huge spell.”

“Yeah, and it’s exactly what we were hoping wasn’t the case,” Jessie said, shuddering. “Crowley’s mother, Rowena, is still alive. And she has an intact Book of the Damned.”

Sam sat up. “They’re going to do it, aren’t they? Open all of the hellgates on the continent.”

“Got it in one,” Jessie said, pointing to him. “Bela reports that the ingredients and objects Crowley and Rowena have been having her acquire all jive with our half-list of what one would need to do this spell. Rowena seems to think that this way the demons will side with Crowley again and he’ll be king of Hell _and_ Earth.” She paused, then continued, tentatively. “Bela was also able to give me some more information.”

Everyone looked at her, expectantly.

“Okay, first, the important thing -- the spell requires that it be cast simultaneously by two strong magic-users in cities of sin opposite each other on the continent. They have apparently chosen New York and Los Angeles, as far as Bela can tell. Crowley’s strong, but he’s not as strong as Rowena; she’s a natural witch, and she was so strong that the Grand Coven overlooked her affair with a non-witch, which is normally a capital offense. The ritual happening tomorrow night, at a high-end nightclub here in the city, is to gather souls to help Crowley power his end of the spell.”

Everyone stared at her.

“Apparently it’s Celebrity Impersonators night,” Jessie said, slightly defensive. “Very popular, and there’ll be close to six hundred people there.” She eyed Josie. “Not quite September 11th level, but the Hellgates....that’d be pretty catastrophic.”

“That’d explain the influx of demons,” Meg mused. “A crossroads demon can snatch a soul from a reaper, no problem, if they’re not playing fair. Some of the rogues are known for it, actually, and it’s how they got so strong.”

“That must be the reason it’s at this _particular_ nightclub. A lot of celebrities tend to hang out there,” Jessie said, her eyes lighting up as she mentally connected the dots. “Worship has its own kind of power -- that’s why the Old Gods are so angry at my dad these days, cuz the more worshipers you have, the more powerful you are. Celebrities are sort of demigods in their own right in today’s society, and their souls would be more powerful because of all of the worship.”

“So what you’re saying,” Castiel said, frowning, “Is that there is a ritual happening tomorrow and a lot of people might die and -- have their souls _consumed_ \-- and we have to somehow stop them without ‘tipping them off’.” Everyone in the room could hear the air-quotes surrounding the phrase “tipping them off.”

“Pretty much,” Jessie replied.

“And hopefully not kill _all_ the demons,” Meg drawled. “Because if we want to keep Bela secure we’ll need to get a secondary source for interrogation purposes. Preferably the ringleader of this little shindig, because I know Crowley and he’s not likely to be anywhere _near_ this.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Jessie said, shaking her head. “But that’s also because, according to Bela, Rowena’s dosing Crowley on the regular. With human blood.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Sam whispered. Then -- “Oh, _shit_ , sorry.”

Jessie snorted, and then had Charlie bring up the club’s website on her iPad. They stared at it for a while -- it was kind of massive, an old warehouse converted into a party space. Shabby enough to be chic without actually violating any building codes.

“Your best bet is to find a way to distract the humans all at once,” Josie said. She leaned forward and tapped on the floor layout, which the club’s website had an entire section for. Presumably their high-end clientele liked to rent the place out for private parties. “Demons, as a general rule, don’t mingle in an attack like this, because they might get caught in the crossfire. More likely they’ll be surrounding the building, inside and out, and covering the entrances to prevent people from escaping.”

“That’s generally true,” Meg mused. “Except this is a warehouse built in like the 30’s. There’s only three entrances, and one’s for loading in supplies. That’s probably why it’s so popular -- the illusion of exclusivity.”

Kevin snorted. “So a few demons over the three entrances and everyone else inside?”

“Probably along the back,” Jessie said, pointing to a big, open area behind the central bar. “Out of the way but defensible, and most of the humans will probably be out on the dance floor. It’s not hard to menace any wallflowers who do show up back there back to where they belong, so to speak.”

“The whole front area here is a stage,” Sam said, tapping the large, squared-away section. “Everything else looks like storage, the bathrooms, and a green room.”

“It’s Impersonator Night,” Jessie said. “So that’s where all of the entertainers will be, at least in shifts. There may be a few demons among them, but I doubt it. Crowley’s followers are few and far between, so I’m guessing this is an all-hands-on-deck sort of situation.”

Meg sighed. “My contact said that there was a general call to the rogue community today, too. There’s a lot less of them than there used to be, because a lot of them sided with Dean when he took over Hell, but they still exist and apparently Crowley’s bargaining. Catch two souls; Crowley gets one, you get one, and you don’t even have to help power the spell.”

Jessie looked like she was going to say something, but then Sam’s phone rang. He glanced down; it was Jody.

“Hang on, I’ve gotta take this,” he said, standing up and grabbing his phone, before walking away from the group. He hit the green button and put the phone to his ear. “Jody? What’s up?”

“I have someone sitting in my living room,” Jody said, her voice strained. “Who should not be here, and I want to know whether or not this is another zombie thing.”

“Shut your damn mouth, I’m not a goddamn zombie,” a familiar voice said. There were sounds of a brief scuffle and then the voice spoke directly into the phone. “Sam Winchester, I swear to God, if I’m a zombie I’m going to come eat your goddamn brains first, stupid _shit_ \--”

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Sam breathed. He glanced at Jessie, who was keenly paying attention to him. “Um. I just got a call from Rufus Turner.”

“He’s on my list,” Jessie said. “No zombies, I promise.”

“Uh, let me talk to Jody, Rufus,” Sam said. “Please,” he added, as an afterthought.

The takeaway from the resulting conversation is that Jody was going to punch Sam through the wall next time she saw him for not informing him that he was hanging out with the Son of God. But at least Jody was reassured -- Rufus Turner was alive and well in Sioux Falls, and he wasn’t going to eat anyone.

Not because he was a zombie, anyway. He was pretty pissed, and Sam wouldn’t put it past him to do it for sport. 

“I’m gonna let you tell him about Bobby,” Sam informed her, interrupting her tirade, before hanging up. He adored Jody and he’d apologize later; right now, they had a siege to plan.


	13. Episode Twelve - Back in Black

** Episode Twelve - Back in Black **

**__** _Back in the back of a Cadillac_

_Number one with a bullet, I’m a power pack_

_Yes I am in a bang with the gang_

_They gotta catch me if they want me to hang_

_Cuz I’m back on the track and I’m beatin’ the flak_

_Nobody’s gonna get me on another rap_

_So look at me now, I’m just makin’ my play_

_Don’t try to push your luck, just get out of my way_

_Cuz I’m back, yes I’m back_

_Well I’m back, yes I’m back_

_Well I’m back, back_

_Well, I’m back in black_

_Yes, I’m back in black!_

\--AC/DC, “Back in Black”

_“So what you’re saying,” Castiel said, frowning, “Is that there is a ritual happening tomorrow and a lot of people might die and -- have their souls consumed -- and we have to somehow stop them without ‘tipping them off’.” Pretty much everyone in the room could hear the air-quotes surrounding the phrase “tipping them off.”_

_“Pretty much,” Jessie summed up._

_“Jesus **Christ** ,” Sam whispered._

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie admitted that Crowley knew her pretty early on in the planning stages, and she didn’t know if he’d circulated her picture to any of his followers.

“Does he know who you are?” Sam asked, astonished.

Jessie shrugged. “He knows I’m more powerful than him and not an angel. I assume he’s made an educated guess. Crowley’s an asshole but he’s not stupid.”

“Actually --” Castiel said, looking ready to argue that point.

“Don’t underestimate Crowley,” Jessie said, raising a finger and pointing it toward him. “A lot of people have and it’s been their own undoing.” She pondered it for several seconds and then said, “He might think I’m an Old God, because that’s the impression I left him with last time we had major dealings.”

“And everyone knows what _I_ look like,” Josie said, hunching over. “Because of Abaddon.”

“They’d have pretty shit security if they didn’t know Sam or me,” Kevin said. “And they’ll be on the lookout for other demons and supernatural shit, so Meg and Benny are right out.”

“Crowley held onto me for _months_ ,” Linda said, looking fierce. “So there’s a good chance his little minions will actually know me if they’re around me for long enough.”

Charlie sighed and turned toward Victor. “The club doesn’t open to the public for another three hours. Wanna play my rich boyfriend?”

Victor stared at her, astonished. 

“On second thought, I’ll be the rich girlfriend,” Charlie said, eyeing him up and down. “You can be my man-candy.”

“Hey,” Victor protested. 

“In the meantime,” Charlie said, looking at Sam. “I trust that you know enough about my operation to get your buddy Rufus set back up with a real life?”

Sam snorted. “He’s too paranoid for a real life. Plus, he was never reported missing or dead; he has his _real_ life to go back to.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “At least send him some money. Ben Carson’s campaign is rolling in dough for reasons I don’t understand, and I’ve been slowly siphoning some of it off into an offshore account.” She wrote some information down and handed it to him. “Wire him a few grand so he can get his shit together.”

Sam promised and Charlie and Victor headed out, armed to the gills with what protections Jessie could give them, to a boutique to look the part of a bimbo rich girl and her man-candy boyfriend.

Feeling a little guilty, Sam brought up Rufus’ information on Charlie’s iPad, but he had been entirely correct -- Rufus owned his house, and had a sizeable retirement that paid automatically into his bank account every month (Sam was honestly surprised that Rufus had a bank account). The bills and yearly property tax all came out of that account, and because Rufus had never been reported dead, things had just kept on keepin’ on. 

Still, Sam called Jody back, apologized, and got enough information from her to discover that Rufus was 1. Still there, and 2. Still had his wallet on him from when he died, because they’d buried him as per Jewish tradition. Cas did a quick jump to Jody’s house to grab his identification so that Sam could update it (seriously, what were their lives that they kept equipment on them to forge identity documents?) -- it was long since expired -- and then Sam wired him five grand so he could get some clean clothes and maybe a car to get to his place. 

Then, because he felt guilty, he made use of a semi-legal website and sent a very expensive case of Johnny Walker Blue Label ahead of Rufus. Maybe the other hunter would forgive them for everything eventually, but he was pretty sure that’d jump-start the process.

**\+ + + + +**

When Charlie and Victor got back (threatening Kevin when he had a good laugh at their expense; their clothes were _ridiculous_ , and Victor was wearing a _wig_ ) it was with both good and bad news.

“Good news, the stage really is the focal point of the whole room,” Charlie said, pulling off a stiletto heel and grimacing. “So if we need a distraction, we have a point to do it from.”

“Are you _seriously_ suggesting that one of us get on stage and perform?” Sam asked, incredulous. Charlie shrugged.

“I have no idea, I’m not the tactician here. I fought a war in a world were magic came easy, not this one. The same rules don’t apply.”

“So what’s the bad news?” Jessie asked.

“The whole building is basically made of iron,” Charlie said. She let her hair down from the ridiculous updo it had been in and shook her head to free it out. “Which I mean, that’s good if we’re worried about hauntings, but --”

“Bad because it’ll amplify the spell and supercharge the souls,” Jessie finished. She sighed. 

“It’s a pretty big room; max capacity is over a thousand people. We pretended to want to rent the place tomorrow for a three-hundred person shindig and the rep actually _laughed_ at us and said they were expecting six hundred to a thousand tomorrow night.”

“Well, _that’s_ not good,” Benny said. He was sipping from a bag of blood that Castiel had obtained for him from parts unknown. It appeared to be fresher than the stuff they had at the bunker, which was good; Sam wanted everyone on the top of their game.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Kevin grouched. Benny shot the prophet a dirty look before continuing his sipping.

“So we go with our original plan,” Sam said, trying to drag everyone back to the topic at hand. It was nearing 7 p.m.; Josie had stepped out to order food, but she was directly outside, on the (well-protected, thanks to Jessie and Cas) balcony, using a cell phone. He waited a few seconds for her to come in; she was a brilliant tactician and a Man of Letters. Her input and help would be invaluable, although he thoroughly did _not_ want her to come with them to the club. She had a chance at a life here. He wondered if he could convince Kevin, Benny, and Victor to stay as well, and then shook his head, re-focusing as Josie walked back to the main countertop they’d been operating from.

“Pizza tonight,” she said. “The Mexican place doesn’t deliver and the Venezuelan place down the street closed early because the owner had to go to the hospital.”

“So, like I said,” Sam said, making sure to include Josie in his vocal round-up. “The plan is to cause a distraction that will somehow only attract the attention of human beings.”

“Is that even possible?” Charlie asked.

“I think we could do a spell of some sort,” Josie mused. “Problem is, getting on stage to do it.”

They discussed this option for several minutes before Sam trailed off, noticing that Jessie and Castiel seemed to be having a stare-down with each other from across the table. Finally, Castiel spoke.

“I will not do it,” he said.

“Come _on_ , Cas,” Jessie pled. “You’ve got that whole mysterious sexy thing going on. They’ll eat it up.”

“They would ‘eat it up’ regardless of what my vessel looked like,” Cas said, scowling. “I will not. You are more of a performer than I am.”

“I’ve spent the last _four thousand years_ trying to stay under the radar,” Jessie argued back. “Besides, you’ve _always_ had a flare for the dramatic. I read the description of the night you first appeared to Dean in that barn -- _very_ dramatic, all wings and lightning and not dying when he stabbed you.”

“I _will not_ do it,” Castiel said. “Ask one of the others. I’m sure Gabriel would happily volunteer for the opportunity.”

“I am not siccing _Gabriel_ on a room full of unsuspecting, sexually-charged human beings. Not unsupervised,” Jessie retorted, looking every bit offended. “Have more sense than that.”

“Anna, then,” Castiel said. “Or any of the other angels you have resurrected in your spare time. I know there are more of them than I’m aware of.”

“Anyone gonna tell us what you guys are bickering about?” Linda demanded. “We’ve got shit to deal with, here.”

Jessie stared at Cas for several seconds before sighing in defeat. “Fuck,” she said. “If any of you records this I swear, I fucking _swear_ , I’ll smite you where you stand.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Linda said, looking irritated, and Sam remembered that, at one point, Linda and Jessie had been married. 

Jessie sighed theatrically and then leaned back into her seat. “Okay, so, there’s kind of a design flaw in the human form. Well, I always thought it was more of a _feature_ than a bug, but Dad was kind of pissed when he found out about it, and by then it was too late to scrap everything and start over, it’s just in the genetics.”

“It is something that angels have been taking advantage of for millenia,” Cas interjected, scowling. “I have never approved of it and I will not do it.”

“Explanation,” Sam said, curt. “Now.”

“Okay, so, when dad was creating what would wind up being humans, he did it using bits from his own creation, and it answers his call, right?” Jessie sat forward. “Essentially, humans are _programmed_ to respond to the song of creation, which anything with the divine spark can tap into.”

“Anything with grace,” Sam translated.

“Yep. So, angels, some fallen angels that turned into demons, dad, and -- well, _me_ ,” Jessie said, frowning. “Any kind of performance art, really, would work; dance, singing, instrumental music. If you have the divine spark, and you start doing one of those, all of the humans in the general area will be hyperfocused on you and drawn to you.”

“Like moths to a flame, to use a painful analogy,” Castiel said.

Jessie nodded, looking vaguely ill. “It’s how a lot of angels get vessels. They sing, the vessels are drawn to them, and they say yes. It’s a neat way to get around the loophole, but it’s a _seriously_ dick move.”

All eyes slid toward Castiel, who defensively said, “I have only sung in the presence of humans once, and that was when I was human myself. I asked Jimmy to be my vessel honestly. Although,” and now he looked miserable, “I could perhaps have been a little more thorough in my disclosure of what being a vessel entailed.”

“Interesting aside,” Jessie said, “There are some humans who are more attuned to the song of creation than others, and that’s where you get your Mozarts, your Beethovens, your Brahms’s. Your Jimmy Page’s.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Sam said, pushing away from the table. “I changed my mind, I don’t want you to cure Dean, I don’t need _two_ of you.”

“Hey,” Jessie protested. Meg snorted and then spoke.

“So,” she said, drawling. “You’re going to sing at Impersonator Night? And hypnotize basically every human in the bar? You realize that most of the people on this little mission _are_ human?”

“Yeah,” Jessie said, looking away from her; the two still hadn’t made up, apparently. “Except I gave almost all of you protective charms that I, _personally_ , made. Those’ll protect you from basically anything trying to use the song of creation against you, amongst other things.”

Josie listened to them and then sighed.”I don’t have a charm,” she said. 

Jessie closed her eyes and then looked at Josie. “I have to call in a few favors to make sure this goes off right. If I have time afterward, I can make you one. I want to anyway, because I went to a lot of effort to bring you back and I don’t want you dying on me. But I might not be able to in time, which means you’d be benched on this one.”

Josie looked a combination of upset, annoyed, and relieved, but she accepted Jessie’s words at face value.

Jessie stood up and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked, startled. “We need to finalize the plan.”

“Cas can help with that,” Jessie said, waving her hand. “I have to call in those favors.”

“How hard could putting yourself in for Impersonator Night be?” Charlie asked, bewildered. “I mean, they don’t even put the list on a _computer_. Just erase someone’s name and switch it with yours. Or make someone have the flu or something and take their spot.”

“Oh, that’s not what I’m calling favors in for,” Jessie said, stopping at the door and looking back at them. She rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed. “I,” she pronounced, “need _backup dancers_.”

**\+ + + + +**

“Sire.”

Dean’s head shot up to regard Hastur, who was staring at him through narrowed eyes.

“Yeah?” he asked. He’d been sitting, bored, at the throne, reports of soul-collecting scattered around. Basically the hellish equivalent of TPS reports. _Fuck_ , this was boring. How did Crowley do it?

“One of the rogues who didn’t side with you has just spoken with me,” she said, still looking at him like he was sketch as _fuck_. “They have alerted me to a spell that Crowley plans to cast tonight, to reap several hundred souls as a power source, with no deals made.”

“Ugh, _that_ jackass,” Dean said, sitting up. “Where?”

“New York City,” Hastur said. Then she slid a folder on top of the stupid TPS reports and opened it. “These photos were taken approximately two hours ago, Earth-time.”

The first photo was Sam and Castiel, standing on the balcony of some ridiculous looking apartment building. Behind them, Dean could actually see the Empire State Building, so he assumed they were in New York.

“So, what, Sam’s on the case? Fuck it, let him do my dirty work for me,” Dean said, dismissing it. Then Hastur flipped to the next photo and the King of Hell blinked in actual, legitimate surprise.

It looked to have been taken through a telephoto lens and showed a massive group of people in the top floor apartment of that building, gathered around a table. He could see them all, and he was honestly stunned.

First, there was that Jessie chick -- no surprise there, she’d been clinging on to Sam since _he’d_ met her. And Sam and Cas were there, too, and Charlie. All of those people he knew about.

But there was Kevin Tran, who was supposed to be dead, and his mother. There was Benny, who’d sacrificed himself to bring Sam back from Purgatory, and Meg, who’d died by Crowley’s own hand. And two _other_ familiar faces -- Victor Henrickson, who’d blown up _years_ ago when Lillith went all Unibomber on that police station, and --

He reared back. “Is that _Abaddon_?” he asked, actual terror clenching his stomach.

“As far as we can tell, it’s just Abaddon’s vessel,” Hastur said, shaking her head. “But she should be dead. A _lot_ of these people should be dead.”

Now that he knew that Abaddon hadn’t somehow come back, Dean couldn’t care less. He waved it away. “Not my problem, really,” he said. “We’re not in the business of miraculous resurrections around here unless someone’s making a deal for it.”

“That’s the point,” Hastur said, actually getting cross. “ _No one_ dealt for these people’s lives and yet here they are, alive and well. Including a Prophet of the Lord.”

Dean shrugged. “I say, let ‘em take out the thing in New York for us and don’t worry about them popping up. Why spend the resources? Sam’ll get the job done; pretty much the only thing he’s good for, killing shit.”

Deep inside, Dean felt bad for that, but he didn’t let Hastur see it. Instead, he turned back to the stupid reports -- 

Hastur made a huff of annoyance and stalked out of the room. Dean couldn’t bring himself to give a fuck. 

“Raum,” he said, and immediately, the other demon was at his side.

“Yes, sire?” Raum asked, letting their eyes stray down his body. Dean quirked his eyebrow; maybe later.

“Dispatch a squad, a good one that’s skilled with magic, to Lebanon, Kansas,” he said, still flipping through the papers in front of him. “I want to know everything I can about the warding on the Men of Letters headquarters.”

Raum bowed and disappeared to do that. Dean didn’t have a particular reason for wanting to know about the warding except --

He kind of missed his vinyl. And he wanted his knife from Purgatory back.

**\+ + + + +**

That night, Sam updated the dropbox document again, amidst all of the preparations for the siege on the club the next night. Impersonator Night was actually starting at 7 p.m., but the doors opened at 5 and so they’d show up around 5:30 and scope the place out while it was semi-full.

He added Josie’s phone number and showed her how to access the document, in case she needed to contact any of them. He’d already added all of the burner phones he’d loaned out to various people in their group, and the T-Mobile phone he’d grabbed for Castiel (although praying worked just as well; he shouldn’t have wasted the money), and it was slowly becoming an actual database. As an afterthought, he added Rufus’ number -- the man’d picked up the wire transfer and almost immediately went and got a new phone and called him on it _specifically_ to yell at him -- and Jody’s home phone. Jessie had been wandering in and out throughout the night, and she spotted him teaching Josie how to use it.

“Oh hey, that’s a good idea,” she said, snagging the tablet from him. “You’ll probably need this one at some point, knowing our luck.” She entered something and then handed it back to him; there, at the bottom of the list, was Bela Talbot’s name and a number with a 775 area code.

Sam blinked. “Thanks,” he said. 

“Don’t mention it. _Seriously_ , don’t tell her and don’t call her unless it’s an _actual_ emergency,” Jessie warned, and then disappeared to acquire something or other that she needed for the next evening.

**\+ + + + +**

Everyone slept in the same rooms as the night previous, Josie returning to her lower-level apartment and leaving everyone else in the penthouse. Everyone had been sort of hoping that Jessie and Meg would head off together -- nothing like domestic strife to ruin the dynamic of a group -- but Meg locked her bedroom door securely behind her and Jessie was in and out all night, catching a catnap on the couch at around 7 a.m.

The next day was more of the same; Josie was a powerhouse as far as arcane knowledge went, and Sam and Charlie were no slouches in that department either, so the three of them had Castiel globe-hopping to find rare ingredients they needed for offensive spell-grenades and protective hex bags. Benny and Victor made sure their stock of angel blades and other blades was in good operating order and spent a lot of time making rock-salt shotgun shells and etching devil’s traps onto bullets for everyone’s handguns. 

Josie ordered a lot of takeout throughout the day to sustain them; the penthouse was, at this point, kind of a disaster area. Sam insisted that all of the human beings, himself included, get a short nap before they hit the club, and so around 2:30 they wandered to their respective rooms.

Kevin and Linda were going to stay at the penthouse with Josie; this was a last-minute decision as, at about noon, Jessie had appeared and informed them that the building was being watched by demons; whose side they were on she didn’t know, but they were being watched. Kevin had been putting a lot of practice time in the bunker’s gun range, and Linda -- to everyone’s astonishment -- was surprisingly well-versed in hand-to-hand combat. With the Trans as the muscle and Josie as the one with arcane knowledge, they could rest secure in the fact that the building was well-protected.

“I thought you and Cas warded the place?” Sam whispered. 

“We did,” Jessie said, equally quiet. “But I couldn’t make an amulet for Josie and I want Kevin out of harm’s way,” and this was said defensively. Then -- “And Rowena is one of the few witches in this world who _could_ undo those wards, so if it’s Crowley’s goons they actually _do_ need some protection here.”

After their naps and an early dinner (Castiel once again procured fresh blood for Benny, who’d claimed not to need it but still drank it when the archangel glared at him) and a somewhat alarming amount of energy drinks, the group was awake and ready to go. They loaded their gear into the cars but left their personal things behind.

“I don’t think the wards will fall,” Jessie said, quietly, to Linda. “But keep an ear out anyway. We may need to beat a hasty retreat.”

“Should I pack everything?” Linda asked, for the first time in the last month regarding Jessie with absolutely no animosity. Possibly because she’d realized that Jessie was equally as interested in protecting their son as she was.

Jessie shook her head. “No. Just this once, I think I’ll hope for a positive outcome.”

Linda rolled her eyes but turned back toward the TV. The group of them had all agreed to make it look like the Trans and Josie had simply chosen to stay back while the group went out for the evening, and they even stopped at a liquor store on the way to the club, acting the part of pre-gaming. In reality, most of them bought more energy drinks, and Sam bought some extra salt. He didn’t think anyone watching them would actually fall for the ruse, but it was worth a try.

Parking in New York was horrendous, especially around a popular club, and Jessie advised them to go to an actual _paid_ parking garage, with security, about three blocks away. The problem would be sneaking their weaponry out around the guards’ noses.

And then _into_ the club under the bouncers’. 

They got a good view of the club from their spot on the fifth floor of the garage, and while the doors had been open for about twenty minutes, there was still a line that wound around the building.

Jessie let out an exasperated sigh. “ _Fuck_ this,” she said. She snapped her fingers and the group found themselves grouped, gear in hand, inside the men’s restroom of the club.

“Gear up,” Jessie said, tersely. “I have to go get ready.” And she disappeared again.

Castiel looked a little green around the gills. “I now understand why you do not like being transported by someone else,” he said, swaying a bit before recovering. 

He only had his archangel blade, as he needed little else, but the rest of the group stashed guns, knives, angel blades, hex bags, and other assorted artillery on their persons, ditching the bags they’d been carrying them in -- they were just old Wal-Mart bags, anyway. By the time the group exited the bathroom -- in pairs, quietly -- and distributed themselves around the bar, it had just reached 6 p.m., and the music was pounding loudly.

Sam actually liked techno, just not at these volumes, and he winced as he wove his way through the crowd. Cas was at his side; they’d decided to split into teams of one human, one supernatural creature, and his partner for the night was Castiel.

Meg was with Charlie, and Victor with Benny. Each pair acted as if they didn’t know any of the others, and Jessie had taken careful care to craft their protective charms to hide their true natures, so they appeared to the demons throughout the building as humans and nothing more. 

Still, Sam was on-edge. The music was too loud, dulling his senses, and nearly all of them were easily-recognizable to Crowley, which meant his goons probably had pictures of them or had dealt with them personally in the past. Victor and Benny were the least-likely to be recognized, which made them point; they went up to the actual bar and started drinking. Victor wasn’t actually drinking, making use of a trick Sam himself had used before -- he and Benny never did their shots at the same time, and a quick slight of hand would push Victor’s full shotglass in front of Benny. 

Benny, being a vampire, didn’t get drunk.

Meg and Charlie were out on the dance floor, dancing with each other enthusiastically. Everyone looking in would simply see a lesbian couple enjoying themselves; only those who knew them could tell they were faking it. Meg really _was_ a good actress, and Charlie just liked to dance.

Cas and Sam were the _most_ likely to be recognized, so they hid out around the tech area, not interfering with the stagehands but keeping mostly out of sight. They also guided intoxicated people away from the sensitive sound equipment, which the hands seemed to appreciate, so they were allowed to stay.

Sam’s demonic blood alerted him, very suddenly, to the presence of an awful lot of demons entering through the main doorway, being waved in by the bouncer -- who, he suddenly noticed, was also a demon.

“How’d I miss that?” he asked, wonderingly.

“I imagine you had other things on your mind,” Castiel said, scanning the room. He was counting, Sam realized, and he realized that Castiel, out of all of them, was likely to be the only one who could see every demon in the room and know them for what they were.

By the time the line outside had finished pouring into the warehouse, it was nearing 7 p.m. and there were about six hundred and fifty human beings, roughly a hundred and forty assorted demons, a siren, and two vampires, _not_ including Benny.

“We didn’t plan for that,” Sam said.

“I expect that once the thrall begins,” Cas replied, “those three will recognize that something big is about to happen and get out as quickly as possible. They are likely only drawn here because it is a source of a meal, not because they’re involved in Crowley’s plans.”

Sam nodded. By Castiel’s senses they knew that the majority of the demons had taken the perimeter of the room, mostly along the back as they’d figured, with a few minor heavy-hitters off to the sides and at the doors. 

The emcee of the event was a fabulously gay man; he looked like Prince and spoke like RuPaul and obviously relished every second that eyes were upon him.

Sam sort of envied him that kind of confidence.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, to cheering. Obviously this crowd knew him well. Now, with the demons focused on the stage, Sam and Cas made their way out to the crowd. There was a section near the stage roped off and marked VIP, and Sam saw an awful lot of familiar faces there -- famous musicians, a few actors, even some youtube personalities. There were less than a hundred of them, including their hangers-on, but that was enough, Castiel informed him, to be worth it to Crowley.

The first act was, Sam had to admit, a pretty stellar rendition of Donna Summers’, “I Will Survive,” with backing vocals provided by other Donna Summers lookalikes. One was a man in drag, who hit all the high notes perfectly.

“Impressive vocal range,” Cas noted.

“And they’re just the first act,” Sam said, astonished. Apparently the people who performed in this competition took it _very_ seriously, because the Donna Summers act had choreography, costuming, and all sorts of other crazy details worked in. He hadn’t seen this sort of attention to minutiae since Charlie last went to Comic Con. 

**\+ + + + +**

Dean was in Raum’s chambers again, working off his frustrations, when Hastur walked in on them. 

He glanced up from the bed in her direction, propping his elbows up on the footboard. Behind him, Raum continued like nothing had happened.

“It’s starting,” she said. “In New York.”

“Did your tails catch Sam going in?”

“No,” Hastur said, shaking her head. “They did not. But he was seen in the club by your agents in Crowley’s ranks. On your orders they are not touching him.”

“Good. Like I said, let Sam do our dirty work,” Dean said, gesturing. Then he hissed, eyes flashing white; Raum had thrust a little hard, like they were trying to draw Dean’s attention back toward them. “Hold your horses, I’ve got a kingdom to run here.”

“So we just wait?” Hastur asked, uncertainly.

“Yeah. Either Sam’ll stop this, or Crowley’s goons’ll kill the whole group off. Either way, one of our problems is solved,” Dean said, grinning lazily. Raum had taken up their thrusting again, and Dean’s dick was starting to leak. He didn’t want to think about his brother right now, although he _also_ didn’t want to examine much why he didn’t want to. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the sex and that road led only to trouble.

There was a minute of silence and Dean pointed at Hastur. “Look, unless you have something else to say, you can either join in or take off, but one way or another, stop standing there.”

Hastur hesitated, glanced at the two of them, and then, heels clicking, headed toward the bed.

**\+ + + + +**

The club was pretty quiet, demonically-speaking; as far as Bela had been able to ascertain, Crowley had instructed his people to start the ritual at midnight exactly. In between each set, some of which were more than one song long, the emcee ran little mini games or had the stagehands play techno, so this was dragging on longer than Sam had thought it would. 

Jessie was scheduled to go on at around 11 p.m., having replaced another act, a solo performance, who that morning had very suddenly won a great deal of money gambling at an Indian casino upstate and cancelled. 

The nearer to 11 it got, the more each of the trio began moving back toward the bar. Victor and Benny’d had to leave it around 8, having hogged the seats for entirely too long, but they were still nearby, pretending to debate something over the music and appreciate the impersonators. Sam realized with sudden clarity that there was a good chance neither of them knew who most of these people were trying to impersonate, as Benny had died a good long while ago and Victor seven years ago. But then again, there’d been a lot of downtime in the bunker; surely they’d caught up with some of the pop culture?

The last performer slated to sing before Jessie left the stage; it’d been a Beatles troupe and they’d actually done _really_ good. Sam was well-acquainted with the Beatles’ music, as it had been one of his mother's favorite bands and thus a mainstay in the Impala throughout his youth. The group was dressed in full-on Sergeant Pepper regalia and did a rousing rendition of “Revolution.” Crossing the timeline there a bit, but still, good performance overall.

Sam began to head closer to where Benny and Victor were standing, just behind the bar but not near enough the demons to draw attention. Cas followed him, closely; out of the corner of his eye, he could make out Charlie and Meg heading toward the bar too, pretending to be sweaty from dancing, and in dire need of drinks. 

Almost exactly at 11 p.m. the lights dimmed again and the emcee announced who was up next. Sam turned to Castiel in a sort of resigned astonishment.

“Lady Gaga? _Really_?” he said.

Castiel shrugged. “It makes sense, I suppose. Jessilyn’s vocal range was roughly the same as ... _Lady Gaga’s_. And her impersonation needed to be culturally relevant enough to draw attention from the humans but _not_ the demons. Additionally, this allows for backup dancers and singers, probably drawn from the ranks of the angelic, which will improve the range and clarity of the thrall.” He sounded entirely disapproving.

“I just --” Sam shook his head, glancing at Meg and Charlie out of the corner of his eye. They both look equally amused and astonished.

People poured out onto the stage -- and Sam was surprised to discover he recognized almost _every single one of them_.

Castiel let out a pained gasp and Sam recognized that he probably hadn’t realized some of these angels were alive again. Because there was Balthazar posing alongside Gabriel -- looks like Castiel’s predictions about the other archangel had been correct -- and _Gadreel_ , which made him feel a little nauseated, personally. In the angel’s defense, though, Gadreel looked kind of nauseated as well and he got the feeling Jessie had pressured him into this. There was another angel in a male vessel; all of them were wearing torn jeans and ripped-up t-shirts.

“Who’s that?” Sam asked, pointing to the other male vessel.

“Ezekiel,” Cas said, softly. 

The male envesselled angels ranked out as half the side of a V, the open end facing the back of the stage; Gadreel was front and slightly stage-right of center, followed by Ezekiel, Balthazar, and then Gabriel at the back. On the stage-left side of the V were four angels in female vessels, all wearing leather pants and studded bustiers -- Tessa, technically a reaper; Naomi, Jesus _Christ_ she hadn’t been kidding about bringing her back; a dark-haired angel that Sam didn’t recognize; and --

“Holy shit,” Sam hissed. “Is that _Raphael_?”

“Next to Hael? Yes,” Castiel said, sounding miserable. “They were brought back, stripped of their archangelic powers. I suspect they only agreed to this in order to upset me; there’s still quite the grudge there.”

At the apex of the V there was an opening, and the angels began to move in perfect symmetry, Jessie herself walked up.

She had an absolutely _ridiculous_ yellow-blonde wig and a black bandanna, on and her makeup had been done so that you could barely recognize it was her; she was also wearing an outfit that was identical to the one Sam had seen the _actual_ Lady Gaga wear in one of her videos. He remembered with visceral clarity _which_ video and -- _goddamnit_ , Sam was gonna have it stuck in his head for like two weeks.

The music started and one of the female angels -- Naomi -- jumped in at the appropriate time, singing the hook. She either had a mic on, was lip-syncing perfectly, or was angelically projecting her voice.

The angels began to dance, and Jessie began to sing -- spot on, which for some reason surprised Sam -- and the entire club went _insane_.

Sam caught Benny’s eye, and then glanced at Meg, and they all nodded, grabbing their partners and heading toward the demons. 

The humans were all oblivious, paying attention to main stage, and it made it that much easier, because Castiel had forgone dragging out his archangel’s blade and was simply smiting demons left and right. Every now and then he’d skip one and force them out of their host before extinguishing them; Sam wished he could tell which demons still had human souls alongside them, but he couldn’t, so he just began _fucking shit up_ , left and right.

As far as he could see, that was the modus operandi for the rest of the group, too. Demons poured out of the woodwork toward them, recognizing Sam and Castiel from sight alone. Some of them, pretty understandably, fled the scene entirely. Sam didn’t have time to go after them, as he was currently trying to knife a demon in a burly biker in the gut.

Bodies began to pile up, and injuries began to accrue; Charlie looked to have broken a hand, and Victor had a bloody slice across the side of his face. Sam was covered in blood and he was pretty sure _some_ of it was his. They had to end this, quickly -- a Lady Gaga song only lasted so long.

Cas made a dismissive gesture and suddenly the dead bodies disappeared and blood was gone from all of them, making more room for fighting the few demons left. This ritual already wasn’t happening, but the less beings supporting Crowley, the better.

“Where did you send them?” Sam called, reaching out as Cas threw a spare angel blade in his direction. He’d lost track of the one he had somewhere in the fuss.

“To where I believe Crowley might be hiding out,” Castiel said, sounding extremely satisfied. Then he paled and began running toward the opposite end of the back area at a sprint, apparently forgetting he was an angel in his haste.

Sam turned to see what was going on -- the last demon left in the building, that they could tell, and one of the larger, more powerful demons at that, had pinned Meg against the wall. 

“The others might not have recognized you, Azazel’s daughter,” he hissed. “But _I_ do.”

“Yeah?” Meg said, apparently not impressed despite his beefy hand encircling her throat. “Funny, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

The demon went to squeeze harder and found himself frozen in his spot. “ _Him_ ,” Castiel said, dangerously. “I think we should take him. Do you still have the handcuffs, Sam?”

Sam handed them over without a word. In the brief second that Castiel had diverted his attention to grab them, the demon lashed out, striking Meg across the face and lashing out toward Benny and Victor, who had also approached. 

Cas tightened his magical hold on the demon and it was like everything went quiet, despite the frenzy of the crowd and Jessie singing in the background -- “ _Jesus is my virtue, and Judas is the demon I cling to!_ ” which, haha, _very funny, Jessie_. The demon spun in place, directed by the archangel, and Cas snapped the devil’s trap handcuffs on him. Then, with a wave of his hand, he cleaned up the mess they’d left behind, probably dropping more bodies on Crowley’s doorstep.

Meg, however, was staring at Jessie on stage; Sam turned and saw that Jessie was looking directly at her, and presumably had been for a while. Something was going on there; this song had some sort of meaning to them, maybe, he didn’t know, but it was like the tension that had existed between the two dissipated almost instantaneously. 

“Cas,” Sam said. “Get this guy where he needs to be.”

Castiel nodded; they’d prepared a safe spot to host any demons they captured to interrogate them in one of the offices of the penthouse, but Cas had warned them that he’d have to transport them in himself; none of them would be able to force a demon in that he hadn’t explicitly already allowed in the wards without him present. 

The angel and demon disappeared; a few moments later, Castiel reappeared, just as Jessie finished up the song, singing the hook with Naomi in time to the dancing of the angels and herself.

The crowd went even _wilder_ , and the angels and Jessie disappeared backstage as the emcee came back on and raved about that _impressive_ Lady Gaga performance. 

It was another twenty minutes before Jessie found them, cleaned up of her Lady Gaga costume and in regular clothes.

“Not a _word_ ,” she said, warningly. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it was a pretty good performance,” purred a voice just off to their side. Castiel froze in place, staring behind Jessie, and the others in the group turned to regard --

“ _Ba’al_?” Jessie exclaimed. Her face had broken out into a smile.

“Wait, no -- “ Charlie said. Then -- “Wait, Lady Gaga was possessed by a _demon_?”

“ _Excuse_ you,” Lady Gaga -- Ba’al -- said, frowning at Charlie. “I haven’t possessed anyone against their will in over two thousand years. _This_ one died of a cocaine overdose _years_ before she got famous.” Ba’al shrugged. “I just did the heavy lifting.”

“I should have figured it out,” Jessie said, clapping Ba’al on the shoulder. “I mean, kind of obvious, writing a song about how you’re in love with Judas.”

Ba’al looked wistful, but smirked.

“Um,” Sam said. “Not to freak out or anything, but -- isn’t Ba’al like, a big-time darkside demon?”

Ba’al looked actually offended at that.

“Maybe back in _my_ day,” Jessie said, rolling her eyes. “But then she possessed Judas and fell in love.”

Ba’al shrugged. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said, winking. “I know a lot of people’d like to know where you’re hiding, Yeshua, and if I didn’t know you so well I’d _never_ have spotted you.”

“Ba’al’s a rogue,” Jessie explained, glancing back toward the group, grinning again. 

“I prefer the term ‘free agent,’” she said back. “I’m not going to fuck with you, Sam Winchester. Besides, I hear you have _more_ than enough on your plate right now.”

Sam raised his eyebrow and Jessie looked interested.

“What with your brother finally returning to Hell and fully taking over the throne,” Ba’al continued. “He was in and out for the last ten years of Hell-time, word is, but he’s stayed the last year or so, hasn’t come topside at all. You’ve got enough on your plate without _me_ adding to it.”

“ _Really_ ,” Jessie said, raising her eyebrow. Her grin turned into a slow smirk.

“How is this a good thing?” Sam demanded, pissed off.

“Because,” Jessie said, still grinning at Ba’al. “Now we know _exactly_ where to find Dean.”

**\+ + + + +**

“What do you mean, _the Gates of Hell_?” Kevin asked, later that night, as the group re-assembled in the penthouse. Josie looked perturbed. 

“Wouldn’t all of the hellgates count as the Gates of Hell?” she asked.

Jessie shook her head _no_. “Yeah, Hell has a lot of entrances and exits. So do a lot of _houses_ \-- back doors, windows, cellar doors, et cetera. But the Gates are the front doors, so to speak, and that’s where most of the dignitaries visit from.”

“Dignitaries,” Charlie said, sounding faint.

“Usually on state business of some sort,” Jessie said, shrugging.

“Yeah, how the fuck do you think Heaven and Hell teamed up together to go against you and your brother?” Meg said, poking at Sam’s arm. She was back to sitting next to Jessie, thank God. “Angels visited and plotted with Lillith and Azazel, and they used the front doors. Were treated like _guests_ , even. Of course,” and she grimaced, “Heaven didn’t allow _our_ people up _there_ to plan, so they came to us.”

“Bit racist of them,” Jessie mused. Then she got back on track. “The Gates are actually located on Earth, and they’re guarded by Thamuz, ambassador of Hell and also sort of a butler.”

“How powerful is he?” Sam asked.

“For _you_ or for _me_?” Jessie asked, grinning wryly. “I can take him out, not a problem.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You might have noticed that Jessie has the ability to create holy instruments.”

“Ooh, like you did with those demons in Reno,” Charlie said, leaning forward.

Jessie nodded. “It’s not a King Midas thing -- not _everything_ I touch turns into a holy relic. But if I want, pretty much anything at hand can take care of a demon, even a high-echelon one.” She glanced at Sam, who remembered the chains she’d used in Lincoln Springs and smirked back at her.

Very quickly, Jessie shot down any of the humans coming with, with the exception of Sam.

“ _Why_?” Josie and Kevin demanded, simultaneously. They both appeared startled to have spoken together, because they eyed each other dubiously. Like agreeing with the other was a bad thing.

“Hell isn’t a place for humans, especially not in physical form,” Jessie said, shaking her head. “There’s a two-to-one chance your souls’d be ripped out of your bodies entirely, just because of the way that realm is designed to _deal_ with souls.”

“I’ve been to Hell and my soul wasn’t ripped out,” Sam said. Then he paused. “Well, it was the first time, but not the second time.”

Jessie snorted. “Yeah, but you have _demon_ blood and you’re related to the King of Hell. Those two things are going to protect you; I have no dominion there, my charms won’t do _shit_.”

“I thought you said you could take demons out,” Linda said, crossly.

“Oh, I can still kick some ass while I’m down there,” Jessie said, shrugging. “But it’s my _brother’s_ house, not mine. I can control Earth and Heaven, but Purgatory belongs to Eve and Hell to Lucifer. My wards and protections have no hold there, because physics and magic are different there.”

“Eve’s dead,” Sam said, raising his eyebrows. “Couldn’t you take over?”

“One, no she’s not,” Jessie said, ticking it off her fingers. “And two, why would I _want_ to?”

There was a beat of silence.

“We killed Eve,” Castiel said. “With a phoenix-ash bullet.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jessie said. “Death brought her back and put her back in Purgatory where she belongs. Every realm needs a leader or things go to _shit_. Do you really think Purgatory is like that _normally_? It descended into _chaos_ when you killed her, so Death evened it out and brought her back.”

“I thought you said _no heavy-hitters_ ,” Charlie said, staring in stunned astonishment.

“I did, but Purgatory needs a ruler and _I_ ain’t doin’ it,” Jessie said, shrugging. “She can’t get out of Purgatory anyway; we shored up the back door through Hell and burned pretty much every mention of how to summon her. And honestly, I don’t think she’s interested in coming back; she’s got her hands full fixing shit from the years she was _dead_.”

Castiel looked pretty peeved; he’d nearly killed himself to send Sam and Dean back in time long enough to get the phoenix ashes, and it was for nothing.

“Anyway, back to the topic at hand,” Jessie said. She pointed. “It’s actually not far from New York, up in Somerset.”

“The Gates of Hell are in _New Jersey_?” Victor said. “ _Seriously_?” Cas had healed them all in the direct aftermath of the scuffle at the club, but he still appeared to be in some pain, as he was holding his hand to his head.

“That would be appropriate, but no,” Jessie said. “It’s in Massachusetts.”

“How close to Boston? Cuz that would make sense, if the Gates of Hell were near Boston,” Charlie asked.

“It’s actually closer to Providence than Boston,” Kevin said. Then: “Seriously, though. _Massachusetts_?” 

“Well, it wasn’t Massachusetts when it was _put_ there,” Jessie said, rolling her eyes. “You idiots built a mental asylum there and it drove the occupants _even more insane_. It’s been abandoned since the 50’s.”

“The Needham Asylum,” Josie supplied. Everyone turned toward her. “ _What_? We studied it a lot because of the demonic activity in the area. It’s about five or six hours away by car.”

“The Needham Asylum currently houses the Gates of Hell,” Jessie acknowledged. “Humans wouldn’t even be able to see it anyway; Sam’ll be able to, but the rest of you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“And how do we get _into_ the Gates of Hell?” Benny asked, mildly. He’d come dangerously close to having his head hacked off at the club and he was a bit shaken, but determined to help his friend and comrade-in-arms, Dean.

Jessie grinned. “You _knock_.”

**\+ + + + +**

The Gates of Hell were actually pretty impressive. They overlaid the doors of the asylum and were crafted out of what looked to be cast iron. There were _spikes_. It was all very theatrical.

“Side note,” Jessie said, grinning as she pulled two swords she’d acquired somewhere out of the trunk of the Impala. “Hell changes shape and appearance based on the whims of its current master. This is what _Dean_ thinks the Gates should look like.”

“Of _course_ it is,” Sam muttered. He was loading up on extra rounds for his Taurus and hiding an angel blade in his jacket -- according to both Jessie and Castiel, Ruby’s knife wouldn’t be of any use in Hell, but an angel’s blade could still kill a demon.

They were in the Impala because Jessie had actually entrusted her beloved Chevelle -- according to her, she’d been the original owner and had passed it on to herself since 1969 -- to Linda to drive the four humans home. Josie was staying in New York City, determined to help the women who had protected her in her hour of need.

They’d left for Massachusetts almost immediately; Cas drove while Benny, Meg, Jessie, and Sam napped. Benny, Meg, and Jessie didn’t need a normal allotment of sleep, but Sam _did_ , and he was cranky when Jessie finally woke him up, just outside of Somerset, with a Rockstar.

“I like Red Bull better,” he’d grumbled.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, fucker,” she’d replied, cheerfully.

Now the Rockstar was starting to kick in, and Sam felt a lot less hazy. He thought he might be set -- angel blade, handgun with devil’s trap bullets, rock salt bombs that Kevin and Charlie had cleverly set up, and a few demon bombs. Hex bags wouldn’t work in Hell, but demon bombs _would_.

Jessie had changed somewhere along the way into more battle-ready clothing -- some sort of skintight suit that reminded Sam nothing as much as something he’d see Melinda May wear in Agents of SHIELD. It already held an assortment of weaponry that Sam was almost positive she didn’t need, and she was slinging a harness over her shoulders to carry the swords, criss-crossed, on her back. 

Once again, Cas had not armed himself with anything. Benny and Meg, however, were festooning themselves with a similar amount of weapons. Meg looked intrigued by some sort of baton, like a cattle prod, and she claimed that one by simple expedient of shoving it into a thigh pocket on her cargo pants. Jessie chuckled and leaned into kiss her; Sam was glad they’d made up, but he hoped this wasn’t some last-night-on-Earth thing. 

Jessie smiled as she pulled away from Meg before turning to regard everyone else with a more serious expression.. “Once they realize we’re here to steal their king, all hell is going to break loose. Pardon the pun. Actually, _don’t_ pardon the pun, that was kind of glorious.”

Meg rolled her eyes.

They shut the trunk of the Impala and Sam thought they looked absolutely ridiculous: Cas in his holy tax accountant garb, Jessie looking like she was trying to play a superhero, Meg in cargo pants with weapons sticking out the side pockets, and Benny and him dressed like _normal_ people. Still, they approached the gates. 

“So,” Jessie said, sounding slightly nervous. “I need to let you know that um, Hell has some special properties.”

“I’ve been there before,” Sam said, wryly.

“No, I mean, by its very nature Hell reveals the true face of everything,” Jessie said. She was still staring at the door. “Which means you’ll see Meg’s true face, and you’ll see.... uh.”

There was a pause, like Jessie didn’t know how to continue. Cas took up the explanation.

“Our wings,” Castiel said. “You will see our wings, Sam.”

Sam raised his eyebrow while side-eying Jessie. “You have wings?”

“I’m the Son of God. Of _course_ I have wings,” Jessie said, rolling her eyes. Then she knocked on the door, loudly. There was a beat, and Jessie turned to him, grinning impishly. “They’re made of fire.”

The door began to creak open, and without warning, Jessie kicked it open with the flat of her foot, stepping forward.

“Yo, Thamuz,” she said, balancing on the balls of her feet. The demon at the door had no idea who she was, looking slightly bewildered, but he came in for the attack and Jessie neatly beheaded him with her two swords, drawn smoothly from their holsters. He flashed as he went down; Sam had only just barely seen the flicker of gold as she turned the swords into holy relics.

“Never liked that fucker,” she commented, stepping inside. The rest of them followed her.

She’d been right. All hell broke loose.

**\+ + + + +**

Demons _poured_ in as they fought their way toward what Jessie assured them was the throne room -- demons in their true form, with no meatsuits but standing upright anyway. Jessie and Cas were pretty impressive, smiting and destroying, but Sam, Benny, and Meg were holding their own too, and soon the bodies -- if you could call them that -- were crumbling to dust behind them.

Two more chambers of fighting and suddenly Sam saw it -- saw Meg’s face grow thornier and darker, saw the tark tint to his own skin, saw Castiel’s great black-gold wings, six of them, unfurl from his back, and saw --

Jessie hadn’t been joking. She only had two wings, but they were _impressive_ , flaming in the shape of crow’s wings with weird circles interspersed throughout, reminding him of Castiel’s true form; they flared out as she moved in defense or offense, and occasionally dragged their way through a demon and disintegrating it where it stood. 

Benny whistled under his breath as he shoved an angel blade into a demon’s back. “Nice feathers,” he called out.

Jessie grinned but didn’t reply.

It felt like forever, and Sam felt himself wearying, but finally they wore themselves down to just one demon. Jessie grabbed him by what would have been his shirt collar and shoved him against the wall. Her grin turned into an evil-looking smirk, and her wings flared out behind her. 

“Take me to your leader,” she said.

**\+ + + + +**

Hell’s throne room had a door made of dark gold, almost the exact shade of Castiel’s wings. It was also sealed completely shut.

The minion who’d led them there scampered off, sounding the alarm. Jessie didn’t seem concerned by this; instead she sheathed her swords and placed her hands flat on the surface of the door, closing her eyes and concentrating.

“You may want to step back,” she said in warning, eyes still closed and brow furrowed.

The other four glanced at each other in concern, and then took several steps back. The door itself began to glow, first bright gold and then fire-white, swirling with magic.

With a sudden boom, the door exploded into shards, almost in slow motion; most of the debris flew into the throne room, but some of it flew back toward them, so fast they began to melt, and Sam was glad they’d heeded Jessie’s advice.

A smile lit Jessie’s face as she opened her eyes and stepped into the throne room. The other four followed her, almost parodying the dance routine she’d performed earlier that evening; to her left were Meg and Castiel; to her right, Sam and Benny. They fanned out behind her, in a defensive position, which was good because demons of all ranks, shapes, and sizes began to come at them in earnest.

Jessie didn’t draw her swords. She didn’t fight at all; the demons couldn’t touch her. It was like some sort of shield had erected itself between her and them. Sadly, that protection didn’t extend to the rest of the group, but she did pave the way, and they cleared up behind her.

Dean was sitting on the throne, sort of casually lazing toward the side and watching them approach. He didn’t appear concerned; in fact, he had his chin propped up on his fist, like he was watching a baseball game from the stands instead of an onslaught against his kingdom. He was even wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Two other demons, both in well-dressed meatsuits (one a black man, one a latina woman), were standing at his side, but they took one look at Jessie’s wings, glanced at each other, and fled the room.

Eventually this room was full of dust too, and it was just their group, staring Dean down. His eyes were solid black.

“Others will come,” Dean said. “Hastur and Raum will make _damn_ sure of it.”

“And we’ll defeat them, too,” Jessie said. Her voice had taken on a sort of booming quality, louder than she should be.

His eyes flicked back to normal and he stared at the group of them, eyes lighting on each one individually before coming back to rest on Jessie. She had her wings out full, almost like she was protecting the group, and something resembling a flaming halo had formed above her head. Even though Sam had known who she was, he’d suddenly found himself _believing_ harder than he ever had before. 

Dean looked uncertain. Sam had never liked that look on his brother’s face. Even if he was a demon now.

“Fine. Do it,” he said, standing up. “You’ve been saying you could do it, so _do_ it.”

Jessie raised her eyebrow. “Are you sure?” She said.

“Yes,” Dean ground out.

“Positive?”

Dean glared at her, eyes flickering white before returning to normal. “Absolutely.”

Jessie stepped up to the throne, directly in front of Dean, chest-to-chest with the King of Hell himself. “Third time’s the charm,” she said, and then she kissed him.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Meg said.

It soon became apparent, however, that Jessie wasn’t kissing Dean because she wanted to bang him, but because she was _sucking something out of him_ \-- putrid black-yellow, pulsing from him to her. Too late, Sam realized what Jessie was doing.

She was curing Dean.

As the kiss lengthened, Jessie began to glow. That was not a metaphor, she was _actually_ glowing with a sickly, eerie, pulsing light. The longer it went on, the brighter the glowing became, until Sam was almost forced to look away.

The last of the darkness melted away from Dean, and with it the Mark of Cain that had been imprinted on his arm for over a year. For the first time in months, Dean Winchester stood before his brother, human and whole. He looked stunned.

Then Jessie, still pulsing with that awful light, threw Dean toward them. “Take him,” she managed to get out. “Take him and _run_.”

They stared at her.

“Go, _now_!”

The group looked at each other; Sam grabbed his brother by the arm and they all bolted, throwing themselves past the destroyed door and toward the one at the other end of the hallway.

Just before he crossed that threshold, Sam turned and looked. Jessie was bent over, her wings spasmodically twitching. Suddenly she arched backward, wings throwing themselves out wide, and there was a flashing light --

He slammed the door shut behind him; less than a second later, there was a roaring noise, followed by a percussive boom that nearly rattled the door off its hinges. 

He waited a second and then opened the door.

There was a long expanse of hallway, the throne room at the very end, but Sam could tell one thing, even from this far away: there was absolutely no sign of Jessie.

She was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF THIS WERE A SEASON, this would be the mid-season finale.
> 
> I'm taking July off from posting! See y'all August 2nd!


	14. Episode Thirteen - Infection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took July off hoping to write more of this and I didn't because Real Life. I may switch to an every-other-week posting schedule so I can try to finish this. Thoughts?

** Episode Thirteen - Infection **

**__** _I can fake it with the best of anyone_

_I can fake it with the best of ‘em all_

_I can fake it with the best of anyone_

_I can fake it all_

_Who’s to know if your soul will fade at all?_

_The one you sold to fool the world_

_You lost your self esteem along the way_

_Just fake it if you’re out of direction_

_Fake it, you don’t belong here_

_Fake it if you feel like infection_

_Whoa, you’re such a fuckin’ hypocrite_

\--Seether, “Fake It”

_The last of the darkness melted away from Dean, and with it the Mark of Cain that had been imprinted on his arm for over a year. For the first time in months, Dean Winchester stood before his brother, human and whole. He looked stunned._

_Then Jessie, still pulsing with that awful light, threw Dean toward them. “Take him,” she managed to get out. “Take him and **run**.”_

_They stared at her._

_“Go, **now**!”_

_The group looked at each other; Sam grabbed his brother by the arm and they all bolted, throwing themselves past the destroyed door and toward the one at the other end of the hallway._

_He slammed the door shut behind him; less than a second later, there was a roaring noise, followed by a percussive boom that nearly rattled the door off its hinges._

_He waited a second and then opened the door._

_There was a long expanse of hallway, the throne room at the very end, but Sam could tell one thing, even from this far away: there was absolutely no sign of Jessie._

_She was gone._

**\+ + + + +**

Dean Winchester had had his share of semi-coherent rides in the backseat of the Impala in his life. Kinda came with the territory of being both a hunter and a Winchester. This time it was like it was in reverse; he could remember running with the group -- with Sam, Cas, _Meg and Benny_ \-- with complete clarity, traversing the levels of Hell and throwing themselves out of the Gates, heart pounding for the first time in _months_ , with a frail mortality he’d almost missed.

He could even remember them clambering into the Impala as he turned and watched the hordes of Hell try to pour out of the Gates. This he knew, because he’d been King -- only the strongest could get out, because Hell no longer had a leader and the Gates were in flux. But he knew of two demons in particular, two who’d been his right-hand men, who could get out and cause some _serious_ fucking damage; so he waited until everyone was in the car and then clambered in last, slamming the door shut.

“ _Go_!” he screamed, his only word a fierce echo of the person who’d last shouted it. He vaguely realized that Sam was driving and Meg had claimed shotgun -- _presumptuous_ \-- and that he was crammed in between the door and Castiel, who was sitting bitch in the back.

Then his vision began to grow hazy, and he passed out to the sounds of Sam throwing the car out of reverse, into drive, and the cacophony of dirt and gravel hitting the Impala’s undercarriage -- a sound he’d come to associate with fleeing the scene.

**\+ + + + +**

When he came to it was in bits and pieces. He could hear Cas telling Sam, “He’s fine, Sam, _keep driving_ ,” and then some murmuring in Meg’s voice before Cas responded, “He’s fine, he’s _human_. He’s just overloaded. Some of the demons are following us; I will return shortly.”

The sounds of wingbeats filled the car, and Dean thought and maybe said aloud, _I thought he was human,_ but before he could get an answer, he blacked out again.

**\+ + + + +**

A few minutes or hours later, Dean roused into consciousness enough to know Cas was back in the car and that he could hear some alt-rock band on the radio, quietly playing as the vehicle’s occupants were settling down. Sam’s driving had evened out enough that the radio caught Dean’s attention and he cracked his eyes open long enough to confirm that his brother hadn’t installed anything _untoward_. He hadn’t, it was just the radio.

The song’s lyrics made him laugh hysterically -- _Counting all the assholes in the room, well, I’m definitely not alone, I’m not alone_ \-- before he passed out, fucking _again_.

**\+ + + + +**

The next hour or two -- or maybe a decade, Dean couldn’t tell, his brain wasn’t processing _time_ very well -- came in bits and pieces, mostly flashes of color and murmurings of voices he couldn’t identify. Eventually he woke up enough to be able to wiggle each of his toes and fingers slightly in succession, confirming he had control of them, and groaned and opened his eyes. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck -- _worse_ , actually, because he’d been hit by a truck before and this was _so much worse_. 

It was terrible, as everything came back to him all at once; he remembered the things he’d done -- he’d been the King of Hell, and he’d _liked_ it. He’d seduced a commander of Hell’s armies, he’d killed people both innocent and disgusting, he’d plotted to take over the world, using Crowley as his patsy. Well, that plan had mostly been on the backburner, but --

Oh God, _he was going to have to stop Crowley_.

He made a sort of glottal-stop noise, sick and rumbling at the back of his throat, and before he could really begin to rationalize shit, his instincts took over, forcing him up into a fetal position as his brain tried to deal with something close to seven years of memories compressed into a few months. His mind just wasn’t up to this kind of time differentiation these days, and he realized, distantly, that he was _actually_ whimpering.

“Is he okay?” he could hear Meg asking, alarmed, and he thought that maybe he wasn’t, if _Meg_ was asking.

“He _will_ be,” Cas said, and Dean could feel the other man -- angel again, maybe -- leaning over him. He curled in on himself tighter, breath stuck in his throat. “I suspect he’s having... well. An anxiety attack. His brain is trying to assimilate his memories of Hell with the fourth dimension, as near as I can tell.”

“He didn’t have this problem when _you_ brought him back,” Sam said, sounding every bit as alarmed as Meg had been.

“Not that _you_ saw,” Cas said, mildly. “He suffered most of it in his grave last time, and it was really very time-consuming, and somewhat annoying, replenishing the coffin with oxygen and making sure he didn’t come to harm. It is unfortunate that it’s something his organic brain has to work through before the attack can cease, or I would ease his distress. Perhaps Y -- _Jessie_ knows of some other way to fix it; it may last several days.”

Dean almost whited out at the idea of being like this, _feeling_ like this, for more than the immediate future, and he slipped back to unconsciousness just as Sam said, “I think -- I don’t know. Jessie _disappeared_ back there. I don’t know whether she’s --”

And then there was a fluttering noise and Cas was gone, his warmth disappeared from Dean’s side just as the hunter went lax, all thought thrown from his mind forcibly.

**\+ + + + +**

Crowley was honestly surprised when Hastur and Raum appeared at the forefront of his much-decimated group of followers. Crowley himself was on the porch of the house, his hidey-hole; his mother was behind him as he debriefed the group one at a time.

The two demons bowed slowly, sinking to their knees. He noted that Hastur had found a much nicer meatsuit at some point since they last met.

“Sire,” they both said, voices hushed.

Rowena stood up and crossed her arms, glaring at them. “What’s this, then?” she demanded. Crowley frowned at her, but he repeated the question, if a little more -- suavely.

“I was under the impression that the two of you were Dean’s most loyal servants,” Crowley said, mildly. He had a headache of some sort, and rubbed at his temples.

“Dean Winchester has been -- _cured_ ,” Hastur said; _spat,_ really. She sounded personally betrayed, and Crowley couldn’t blame her. Dean had that effect on people. “No one leads; no one sits on the throne. Hell’s ranks have been _decimated_ by those that attacked, but we come to you with a sizeable army.”

“Many of my legion have been away on assignment,” Raum said, their voice low. “I give them over to service of the King.”

Crowley rubbed his temples again; almost instantly, his mother was at his side, handing him a glass of whiskey. He downed it and the headache receded to a dull roar.

“What makes you think I want to be King again?” Crowley asked. Rowena, next to him, flexed her fingers, and he put his hand on hers to still any words she was going to say. This was a delicate game.

“We had intelligence,” Hastur said. They were both still kneeling on the ground, dirtying their knees and palms. “We knew you planned to open the portals between Hell and this realm.” Her voice took on an edge again. “I would serve the king of two realms over Dean Winchester, _traitor_ to Hell, any day of the week.”

It was a good thing Dean had been cured, Crowley thought, frowning, because out of everyone in the universe, Dean Winchester as a Knight was the _one_ being who could have snatched that power from him the moment he’d opened the gates.

“You betrayed me once,” Crowley said. “What reassurance do I have that you won’t do it again?”

“None,” Raum said. “We cannot help but be what we are, sire.”

Hastur snorted, but she smiled. “You could make a deal with us, sire.”

Crowley raised his eyebrow. “Hell already _has_ your souls.”

“But we are still bound by any deals you make,” Hastur pointed out. The two of them were still gazing, dispassionately, at the ground.

“Who are these two?” Rowena murmured next to him.

“Two of the highest-ranking demons in Hell,” he replied. “Fallen angels. Some of the youngest, but powerful allies, nonetheless. But at what cost?”

“So make this deal,” Rowena said, arching her eyebrow and crossing her arms again. “Guarantee their loyalty.”

Crowley considered, glancing down into his empty scotch glass before glancing back up at Raum and Hastur.

“Consider yourselves re-hired on a temporary basis,” Crowley said. “We’ll make that deal, and you’ll tell me everything you can about Dean Winchester’s plans while I was...indisposed.”

Hastur and Raum bowed lower, their foreheads nearly touching the ground, and then they stood, dusting themselves off and standing at the closest thing to attention either could manage.

“This works out well,” Rowena said, pride leaking out of her voice. “King of Hell already. Lucky you.”

Crowley grunted and gave the order for his underlings to begin clearing out the safe house. Inside of an hour, it was abandoned and derelict, as it had been prior to his occupation.

The only difference was the corpses that had appeared the night before; they stayed, and local forensics specialists would be baffled by the fact that nearly all of these people were from New York City and had no specific reasons to be dead. They would be even more baffled by the small amount of them that had large, triangular holes pierced through their hearts and chests. 

**\+ + + + +**

When Dean came to next, he was in an unfamiliar bed, a rough blanket tucked around him. The ceiling above was lit by daylight and was painted a bright white color rather than the off-white beige of the bunker. It _definitely_ wasn’t the deep red of his chambers in Hell. 

He sat up so quickly he made himself nauseated and had to lay back down for several minutes. In the hallway -- or whatever was outside of this room -- he could hear Castiel and Sam.

“I have dispatched the demon and returned his host to their home with instructions to get the anti-possession charm,” Cas was saying. “The demon had little to no information that we did not already have.”

“Any luck with Jessie?” Sam asked, sounding worried.

“I could not find her, and have passed the word on to my brethren. They will be looking for her, but she is _exceedingly_ good at hiding, should she wish.”

“She could be dead,” Sam said, worried. Dean wanted to sit up but his stomach was still protesting.

“She _can’t_ die,” Cas said, flatly. “Not like that, anyway. There are only a few beings in the universe that could dispatch her, and a Knight is not one of them, let alone curing said Knight. A Leviathan _could_ devour her, and our Father and his brother --”

“Death?” Sam asked.

Cas was silent for several seconds before answering. “No, not Death. Death has no true dominion over her. Father and Death had another brother -- a _sibling_ , really, as I don’t believe any of them have any real gender identities -- that humanity misinterpreted as Lucifer. I believe the correct translation of his name would be _Chaos_ , but he was the Adversary to us when we fought him.”

There was a long silence and Dean thought maybe they’d moved away from the door, but then Sam spoke again. “Do we need to worry about -- um, Chaos?”

“I doubt it. At the creation of the universe our Father banished him to the outer echelons. It was what created the universe, actually, spawning the Big Bang, and --”

“Alright, I get it,” Sam said, cutting Cas off. “Chaos isn’t an issue; the Leviathan have mostly been relegated back to Purgatory, and God’s a no-show, so Jessie must not be dead.”

None of this made any sense to Dean, and he could feel sleepiness creeping back up on him. 

“Yes. The others are looking into it; I have chosen to keep an eye on _this_ situation, as it is equally important, and am in regular contact with Jessie’s spy.”

“Bela’s talking to you?” Sam sounded astonished.

“Yes. Crowley took over Hell again, approximately two hours ago our time, this time with his mother and the Book of the Damned. It does not look good, Sam.”

Sam sighed. “We need to head to the Bunker soon.”

“Yes, it is probably far safer there,” Cas said, and Dean tried to call out, tried to tell them that he’d had Raum investigating the wards on the bunker, that they’d almost certainly be within Crowley’s reach, but true sleep overcame him. For once, he wasn’t passed out because his mind couldn’t cope -- his body was simply resting, rejuvenating itself.

**\+ + + + +**

Sam was glad to have his brother back, but it’d be nice if he’d fucking _wake up_ every now and then.

Meg and Castiel, being fully capable of teleportation, had taken themselves to the bunker after helping Sam and Benny load Dean into the backseat of the Impala. Then the vampire, who’d been feeling the sun, tucked a blanket over himself and slept while Sam drove toward Kansas at full speed. 

Benny took over after sundown, letting Sam curl into the space he’d previously occupied; in this way they were able to make Lebanon in just about 20 hours; they stopped for gas and restroom breaks, grabbing junk food from convenience stores for Sam, but nothing else.

Sam’d taken the wheel again shortly after midnight, and they rolled into the Bunker’s garage just as sun was coming up. Dean had woken up exactly _once_ ; he’d tried to sit up, puked into a Piggly Wiggly bag, and then passed out again.

They’d left the Piggly Wiggly bag on the outskirts of Springfield, Illinois.

Now, Sam could hear the occupants of the bunker waking up as he tiredly pulled his gear out of the trunk with Benny. For now, they left Dean in the backseat, dumping their gear in the armory or their individual rooms. Sam gently placed Jessie’s bag in Jessie’s room; Meg was asleep on their bed, which honestly stunned Sam.

He supposed the demon was as worried about the Jessie situation as he himself was, even though she wouldn’t display it.

Castiel and Gabriel showed up as Sam was trying to figure out how to get Dean out of the car without waking him up. Cas rolled his eyes and simply tapped the older Winchester on the forehead from the open door.

“He’ll bitch about his bowels for about two weeks now,” Sam said, closing the door, now that Dean was no longer in the car.

“He was asleep and unaware; I doubt he’ll have any complaints,” Cas replied. “I’ve sent him to his room.”

Sam nodded and the three of them went back upstairs. By now, the other residents of the bunker had fully woken up; Linda was sitting at the table in the main room, studying a computer screen intently, whereas Kevin was stumbling around like a crazy person, uncoordinated and sleep-deprived. Cas went into the kitchen to get coffee made for the prophet. The kitchen was apparently where Victor and Charlie were at work, because they made delighted exclamations at Castiel’s appearance.

Sam immediately felt bad for not keeping the people at the Bunker abreast of the situation -- they’d been here, waiting nearly four days for news. 

Two of those days probably would have been spent in transit, but the fact remained that Sam should’ve told them, at the _very_ least, that they’d be arriving today. Maybe Meg told them what went down when she came back.

Charlie and Victor didn’t seem to mind the sudden extra mouths to feed, because the two of them loaded the main table down with a massive breakfast, and Charlie tossed Benny a blood pack. “Got a fresh shipment on the way back into town, tossed the old stuff. This stuff isn’t past its expiry date; it came up positive for herpes so the hospital threw it out, which is stupid because like _half the planet’s population_ has some form of the herpes virus, but hey: free food.”

Benny looked incredibly grateful.

Once he had coffee in him Kevin was marginally more functional and he went to go wake Meg up for breakfast, and Charlie, apparently remembering that Gabriel liked sweet things, sat a huge stack of waffles dripping with syrup and real butter in front of the archangel while everyone else helped themselves to more waffles, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast.

“Knew there was a reason you were my favorite Winchester,” Gabriel said, brightening as he ruffled her hair. She shot him an irritated glance but didn’t contradict him on the surname as she sat down as well.

Meg had severe bed-head and looked irritated until Castiel handed her a cup of coffee, but she sat with everyone else and had breakfast too.

It was over this that Sam filled everyone else in on what had happened. He had to physically restrain Charlie when she discovered that Dean was alive, human, and here in the bunker. 

“So I’m guessing there’s been no word from Jessie,” Meg said, tension lines visible on her face.

“None that we can spot,” Sam said, apologetically glancing in her direction.

“The Heavenly Host, especially us archangels, have been on the lookout, too,” Gabriel said, around a mouthful of waffle. It was disgusting. “Every now and then we hit a warm spot in the pool, so to speak --”

“Gross!” Charlie exclaimed, throwing a wadded-up fast food napkin at the archangel. 

“But I’m not actually getting a sense of where Yeshua might be,” Gabriel continued, like he’d never been interrupted. “Anna and Cas here aren’t quite as used to focusing on individuals with archangelic powers, but they also knew Yeshua better than me, so they might have a connection I don’t. We don’t think she’s dead, but we’re not sure what curing a Knight would have done to her, either. She could’ve been blasted to _Jupiter_ , who knows.”

“Or transmuted into another kind of being,” Castiel said, worried. “I’m not entirely certain what that amount of demonic taint would have done, even to someone containing the vastness of part of God’s grace.”

“I don’t think that’s that likely,” Gabriel interjected. He shook his head. “Unless Yeshua _wanted_ to fall from grace, I don’t think the demonic influence would have taken hold. Just taken her _apart_. Maybe.”

Gabriel left shortly after finishing his waffles and making this report; he and Anna were both keeping an ear out for Jessie in addition to their normal Heavenly duties and looking for the sparks of angelic grace that Jessie had originally tasked them to find. He couldn’t hang around the Bunker, like Castiel, who had been _specifically_ tasked with making sure things on Earth were okay rather than told to seek out death-sparks. 

This Gabriel pronounced like any older brother would -- “I have _actual_ work to do, unlike my little brother,” was the gist Sam got as Gabriel smirked and disappeared into the void. Castiel rolled his eyes but did, in fact, stay.

Charlie reported a steep decline in demonic omens over the last three days or so, and almost all _other_ supernatural activity, too. It was almost like the world was holding its breath -- waiting to see if the Son of God was going to reappear or not.

**\+ + + + +**

Crowley didn’t really like Hell that much, but the way it warped time was useful for his own purposes. He was honestly surprised Rowena hadn’t been ripped to shreds the moment she crossed the threshold, but she _was_ a powerful witch, and if anything could hold her together, it was that. 

He was going over the reports Dean had neglected so much during his tenure as King. The second club had been built and was operating out of Seattle; Dean had wisely made the decision to stay away from Jessie’s base of operations. It was reeling in souls, and at an increased rate, because the demons had been given leeway to specify more leniency for timeline. Deals ranging from ten days to twenty years, depending on how much the person wanted the thing, were pretty standard at the clubs. A lot of terminally ill people were making deals for one last hurrah before they popped it. Didn’t even have to send hellhounds -- they just died on their own, and their souls were collected by crossroads demons and brought down to Hell. Making up for the all-time low in gay youth suicide, since same-sex marriage had been legalized.

Honestly, Crowley hated that Dean’d had the idea to be flexible with deals, because it was a damn good one. It showed that Hell had stagnated; he intended to revitalize it. 

And take over Earth.

Presently, Raum appeared at his side; Raum and Hastur had both made deals with him, Crowley, _personally_ , pledging their allegiance and to never tell an untruth, nor hide by word or deed anything Crowley needed to know from them. 

“Before his betrayal,” Raum said, taciturn as ever, “Winchester ordered some of my best to decode the wards on the Winchester bunker located in Lebanon. They only just returned with the information; I thought it might be of use to you, my lord.” And the demon bowed, perfunctorily, dropping a scroll into Crowley’s hands and then disappearing.

Dean going lightside again must really be smarting the demon, Crowley thought, as he unbound and read through the scroll. His lips turned upward into a smile.

“Someone send for my mother,” Crowley ordered. One of the lower-echelon minions bowed and left the throne room. 

Having a powerful witch on your side had many benefits, Crowley decided, sipping his scotch.

**\+ + + + +**

Dean’s clock informed him, when he woke up, that it was 3 in the morning. What day, he didn’t know. He did know he was back in his room in the bunker, which was nice and familiar. He also realized he was _starving_ \-- he hadn’t eaten anything in _literal years_ \-- and figured 3 a.m. was a nice time to make a raid of the kitchen. Likely no one would be awake.

He sat up, remembering to go slowly this time; his stomach didn’t protest the movement, and he gingerly drew his legs over to the side of the bed. Whatever had been causing his mind unrest seemed to have mostly settled; he only felt slightly panicked, and his body seemed to be cooperating with him, for the most part. 

He slowly stood, heading for his dresser and pulling out fresh clothing. He’d been wearing these rags for, once again, _literal years_ , and while he’d been able to keep himself pretty clean as a demon, they _reeked_ of sulfur. He never wanted to see them again.

He allowed himself a quick shower, inspecting his entire body and marveling at the lack of the Mark, and an even quicker brush of his teeth before his stomach reminded him that he needed to fill it. He quickly dressed in the T-shirt and jeans he’d chosen in his room, and on the way out of the bathroom, he tossed his old clothes into the garbage can.

Of course, he’d been wrong that no one would be up; Castiel was an angel again, and he was wide awake, sitting at the table in the main room and reading something intently on someone’s laptop.

The angel glanced up, and then did a double-take when he realized Dean was standing in the entryway. “Hello, Dean,” he said, blinking. Dean stared back at him without saying anything, and then beelined toward the kitchen. He was immeasurably grateful that Cas didn’t follow him.

Dean didn’t know what to make; had never actually seen the kitchen pantries and fridges (there were multiple of each; the bunker was designed to withstand a siege) completely full. Someone, apparently, had been filling it on the regular, because he had a good stock of food and, searching through his mind and remembering both his recipes and his medical knowledge, he decided to make something gentle. He spotted abalone in the freezer: shelled, prepared, and wrapped like they sold at Asian grocery stores. He decided that Charlie was probably the one restocking the kitchen.

It reminded him that he knew a recipe for Korean-style porridge, _jeonbokjuk_ , that someone -- probably Bobby -- had once told him was easy on the stomach, and he set to making it. He had to grind rice and slice abalone extremely thin, and he made semi-liberal use of some of the fresh ginger (which he had to grate) to spice it up a bit, but having something to focus on, like food he’d never made before, was _wonderful_. Fantastic even, because he didn’t have to think about his time as a demon.

A half hour later he had a decent-sized batch of the stuff in front of him. It smelled good, like a really good seafood restaurant, and he ladled himself a serving of it and grabbed a spoon and a Sprite from the fridge before reluctantly heading back out to the main room. He actually debated eating the stuff in the kitchen, but decided that hiding away from everyone was stupid. Castiel had a habit of forgiving Dean when he didn’t deserve it, so the angel was a good way to dip his toes in the pool, so to speak.

Resolutely, he sat himself exactly opposite Cas and began to eat his food and drink the Sprite; they both tasted amazing, and he had to remind himself several times to go slow. The angel glanced up at him as he sat, but then immersed himself back in whatever he was reading on the laptop. Either Dean had fallen that low in Cas’s estimation, or he’d decided that talking was probably not a good idea right now. The first option made Dean’s stomach sink, and so he focused on the second instead, hoping to at least retain something resembling an appetite so he could get this bowl of porridge down. 

Eventually (according to the clock on the wall, it was just past four now) Dean _did_ finish, and he sat back, regarding his empty bowl and considering whether or not he wanted to try for a second one or if that would be pushing it. 

“I would wait,” Cas said, kindly, from across from him. He was regarding Dean through squinted eyes. “Your stomach is nearly at-capacity; any more and you’re likely to vomit. Again.”

Dean raised his eyebrow and Cas explained. “Apparently you threw up on the ride home from New York,” he said. A horrified expression crossed Dean’s face and he went to stand before Cas continued. “Even in the state you were in, you had the presence of mind to do so in a grocery bag rather than ruin the Impala’s interior. Sam was very amused. Benny less so, as he had to dispose of the bag.”

Dean snorted, but he still didn’t talk. He didn’t -- he didn’t know if he _could_ , to be honest. Every time he thought to, every time he opened his mouth to try and say _anything_ , even just to inquire how the angel was doing, the words stuck in his throat.

He remembered the months after his mom died. He’d been almost five years old, and he’d spent a lot of the year that followed her death stone-cold silent. He remembered this -- he’d tried to talk sometimes, even just to tell his dad that Sammy needed a diaper change or that he wanted a hug, and the words wouldn’t come out. He remembered teachers trying to cajole him into speech, or trick him into it, and he’d just retreated further into his shell. The first day he’d talked a full sentence had been shortly after they’d taken to the road; he’d told his dad he wanted to eat at McDonalds that night. He’d thought John would cry, at the time. 

Now, he didn’t think the promise of McDonalds was going to get his throat to work. 

“I must apologize,” Cas said, flushing faintly. “I was briefly human before Y -- before I was given my grace back, and I used your room and clothing without permission.”

Dean blinked at Cas, who looked actually embarrassed and upset that he’d used Dean’s things without his consent. Dean knew he was a stickler about the few possessions he had -- mainly the Impala, but he was touchy about his gun and the knife from Purgatory, too -- but so much that he’d make an angel nervous?

It shocked him into laughing, although it wasn’t entirely a happy laugh. “‘s okay, Cas,” he said, his voice croaking out the words before he had a chance to think about them. “‘s not like I was usin’ ‘em, anyway.”

Then his mouth clamped shut and refused to open. His stomach churned and he had to take deep breaths through his nose before it settled again. 

Cas stared at him for several seconds before he launched into a story about Charlie and some angels; and then later on, a secondhand account of how she’d hacked the World of Warcraft servers to turn everything day-glo rainbow. Castiel, at least, had figured out how to make Dean feel better -- _distract him_.

By the time everyone woke up a few hours later, Dean had consumed another bowl of porridge -- which was almost as good cold as it was hot -- and had actually managed to get a few more sentences out, mostly urging Cas to continue whatever story he was telling. He was as close to relaxed as he thought he could get right now, so when Charlie bowled into him he didn’t immediately tense up.

“Oh my god you’re _awake_ and you’re _back_ and _I missed you so much!_ ” Charlie exclaimed, crushing him to her like she was afraid he’d disappear. He snorted but didn’t say anything.

“Dean made porridge,” Castiel informed her. She made a disgusted sound and Dean responded with an affronted noise, from where his face was buried in her shoulder. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to raise his arms and hug her back -- he didn’t deserve that kind of comfort -- but he allowed her to do her thing without panicking too much.

“It’s a Korean dish,” Cas continued. “Made with seafood and rice.”

“Ooooh, _juk_? Which kind?” She pulled away from Dean and stared at him for a few seconds before catching on that the working of his jaw was him trying to talk, and so she started listing off ingredients before hitting on what it was he’d made. He nodded at the word and she made a surprised exclamation and bolted for the kitchen.

“Fuck yeah, I’m off kitchen duty for the morning!” Charlie was crowing from the other room. “I’ll just reheat this and by the time everyone wakes up it’ll be ready to go.”

Dean figured he’d stick around, let everyone verify that he was alive and not demonic, and then retreat to his room. He almost stuck to that plan, too. Because everyone was there and talking around him -- not _ignoring_ him, as every single one of them had said hello to him and wished him a good morning, even _Meg_ (well, she didn’t wish him a good morning, but she did grunt out, “Thanks,” when he handed her a mug of coffee, because apparently no one else in the goddamn bunker knew how to use a vacuum-style coffee maker), and pointedly didn’t comment on how he wasn’t talking.

It felt like a good time to wander off, and he’d just started heading toward his bedroom, but that’s when it happened.

There was a very loud _cracking_ noise, and suddenly that chick -- _Jessie_ \-- was standing near the telescope, barely three feet from Dean. “I gotta tell you,” she said, shaking in place. “Reconstituting yourself on the Earthly plane when you dissolved in the Hellish one _ain’t easy_.”

Then she looked around, saw everyone staring at her, and grinned. And then immediately passed out. Dean caught her as she went -- had seen her eyes roll back in her head, knew what was coming -- but now he had no idea what to do with her. 

Apparently, neither did anyone else, because they were staring at him in stunned amazement.

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie didn’t sleep for quite as long as Dean had, but a solid 20 hours was enough to have everyone worried. Dean didn’t know where she fit into this -- didn’t actually know where _he_ fit into all of this, so he was in the dark on pretty much everything. He picked up, with the intuition of someone who’d had to know how to predict behavior from a young age, that Meg was the most worried, and that she and Jessie shared a room.

Cas had fucked off to Heaven when Jessie reappeared, after assuring himself that she was alive and well. Dean didn’t know what was going on and he didn’t know how to ask even if he could. He tried -- in his room he could talk perfectly fine, but the moment he got near anyone else it was like his jaws wired themselves shut, or his throat was stuck together. He _hated_ it. 

He was on his laptop, dug up from the drawer of his nightstand and charged up while he’d napped that afternoon, looking up everything that’d happened in the last few months in the civilian world. Gay marriage was legal, which was neat. Donald Trump was running for president -- _not_ so neat. Syria’s civil war was reaching epic proportions and refugees were fleeing, which was kind of terrifying, not because they were fleeing, but because other countries were trying to refuse them. Cole Tucker’d died, but he wasn’t going to admit to anyone that he even knew who Cole Tucker _was_. 

He’d just closed out of that tab when Jessie wandered, woozily, into the main area of the bunker. She seemed to know exactly where she was and how to navigate the place, because she headed toward the kitchen, reappearing a few minutes later with a hastily-thrown-together sandwich and a Coke. She downed both of them like it was going out of style.

Dean raised his eyebrow at her and she got a defensive look on her face. “What? Reconstitution really _does_ take it out of you.”

Like before, because he wasn’t really thinking about it, Dean blurted out, “No one’s ever explained how you can reconstitute. Or how you can cure demons. Or _what you are_.” 

Jessie stared at him for a second and Dean clammed up, his jaw refusing to cooperate. 

“Selective mutism,” she said, a few seconds later, smiling compassionately. “I had that once, like, my third life, once I remembered who I was. Sucks the big one. Result of trauma, usually.” She sighed and raised her eyes skyward, almost like she was praying, before she said, “I’ll tell you the whole story, on one condition.”

Dean stared at her.

“You make breakfast. Like, a big one. _Massive_. All the fixin’s.”

His stare turned incredulous and she grinned. “What? Girl’s gotta eat, man.”

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie made sure to pick a spot where she could keep an eye on Dean, but not be overheard -- he wasn’t handling _any_ of the story well, from what she could see; not who she was, not Castiel’s sudden re-angelfication, not the deal with God and Death and people coming back to life, not _any_ of it, but he was trying, so she had to give him credit where credit was due.

Also, the man could _cook like a motherfucker_. She’d eaten the last of the leftover _jeonbokjuk,_ and when she proclaimed herself still hungry, he’d thrown together french toast, fried eggs on toast, hash browns, and sausage. It was probably some of the best food she’d had in a long while; not that Victor or Charlie were slouches in the cooking department, but Dean had an almost natural talent for it. 

Her phone, which had been in her bag in the Impala, had several missed calls, all of them from Bela, so she called the demon back.

“It is _five in the morning_ and there had better be a good reason for this,” Bela said, sleepily, as she answered the phone. Then, a few seconds later, the dots connected. “Oh, I take it you’re back. That’s good, because I have information you’ll want.”

“I figured, seeing all the missed calls,” Jessie murmured. She kept an eye on Dean, who looked to be calming down after his near panic attack. “What’s up?”

“Your precious bunker, the one the Winchester pack likes to hide away in?” Bela said, and Jessie could hear her sitting up in bed. “Raum handed Crowley detailed instructions on the wards that protect it not too long ago and they’re taking advantage of the difference between Hell-time and Earth-time to have Rowena study them. She thinks she’s almost got them cracked.”

Jessie’s throat dried up. “ _What_?” she croaked. 

“Your sanctuary isn’t safe anymore,” Bela said. “I only found out a few hours ago, Hell-time, but I expect they’ll be on their way any minute now. You should either evacuate or try to reinforce the wards.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jessie said. She sent out a command, drawing the three archangels toward her. “Bela, I have to go, I’ll call you back later. Stay safe.”

“Naturally,” Bela said, and Jessie could practically _hear_ her rolling her eyes. She hung up and bolted back into the room.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked, shooting to his feet. Once again, speech came to him when he wasn’t think so hard about what he thought he needed to say.

“Crowley has access to the wards,” Jessie said. “We need to wake everyone up; I’m going to try and re-cast different ones, but just in case, we need to prepare.”

“For _what_?” Dean called out, as Jessie flew toward her room. 

“A war,” Jessie yelled back.

**\+ + + + +**

Even with three archangels and the Son of God working full-out to bring the wards down entirely and then re-erect new ones, based in Old Enochian, there would be a margin of error. They might accidentally bring the wards down while Crowley was standing outside; they might bring them down while Rowena was working with them, which would not only expose Jessie for who she really was but could damage the angels. They had to plan this very precisely, which was difficult because they had absolutely _no idea_ what time frame they were working with.

Meanwhile the rest of the bunker had woken up at Dean and Jessie sounding the alarm. Sam was just happy his brother was talking again; apparently people in danger loosened his tongue. Everyone else, however, was busy preparing for potential attack.

Dean had taken one look at Gabriel and Anna and walked out of the room. He was quietly preparing salt rounds in his bedroom, while one of the Men of Letters labs had been devoted entirely to the creation of demon-bombs. Before Anna, Gabriel, Castiel, and Jessie got to work, they’d obligingly flitted around the globe, quickly gathering the ingredients in the blink of an eye. So quickly, in fact, that they almost met themselves coming back, and Sam frankly suspected that they’d bent time to get the stuff together.

Linda, Kevin, and Victor devoted themselves wholly to this project, commandeering most of the vials the bunker had on-hand. Sam and Benny etched devil’s traps onto bullets, their stock having been severely depleted after both the attack at the nightclub and their siege on Hell to get Dean back. Meg, who’d had more experience with witchcraft than pretty much anyone in the bunker, was helping the angels and Jessie. This fact actually made Dean laugh when he discovered it, on his way to the kitchen to start up lunch. Everyone’d begun hopping-to pretty much immediately after Dean and Jessie had sounded the alarm, and no one had eaten breakfast except for Jessie and himself, so he figured he’d make himself useful and began preparing a massive batch of egg salad, which was packed with protein. 

Also, he’d run out of rock salt and shotgun shell casings. They now had more shotgun shells than they had ever needed before, which was saying something because Bobby’d been a paranoid bastards and _boxes_ of the things had lined his kitchen counters on the regular. 

Out of respect for Meg, he made one batch salt-free -- he refused to use kitchen salt for shotgun shells on principle -- and then began preparing a truly impressive mound of the sandwiches and distributing them. Sam appreciated his efforts vocally and Dean nodded. Benny was already sipping off of a bag of blood.

Victor, Linda, and Kevin were appreciative but distracted, and he left their sandwiches on plates just out of reach of the ingredients for the demon bombs, much of which was toxic. 

Finally, he approached the angels, Jessie, and Meg in the main room. Jessie had a map of the Men of Letters bunker and the warehouse above it, both of which were included in the wards, and had somehow made it three-dimensional. Like Tony Stark, only less cool because she was annoying as hell.

He gave Jessie a plate, which she thanked him for, and then Meg. The demon eyed him suspiciously and he said, “Salt-free. Scout’s honor.”

Meg sniffed it and bit into one sandwich before accepting him at his word, but then she eyed him. “So you’re talking again?”

Dean eyed her warily before saying, “Seems like it.”

“Huh.” And with that he was dismissed, although Meg _did_ continue eating the sandwiches, so he assumed that was as much thanks as he was likely to get. 

“See, the problem is that if we get into the wards while Rowena’s in them, we’re all vulnerable,” Jessie said. “If I bring my grace out into this plane while I’m inside the wards, I’m safe, but if they go down, there’s no goddamn _way_.”

Dean could see it, her little 3-D rendering. It was actually floating about a foot off the table, because there was a sphere encapsulating the entire bunker and warehouse, and that sphere went into the ground. Nice to know that they couldn’t get to them from below.

Then he stopped and peered at the model. The wards extended to the grounds, allowing them some protected space that stopped just before the door and included a great deal of area, including a spot that Dean worked out had been kitchen gardens at one point. Overgrown, but hey, fresh-grown tomatoes sounded kind of awesome so he might fuck around with that at some point. But that wasn’t what he was thinking about, not really.

“None of the wards touch the building itself,” he said, pointing.

“No shit,” Meg said, rolling her eyes.

“I made alterations to the wards using the walls,” Jessie said, looking at Dean. “But the wards themselves were designed to encompass the entire Men of Letters grounds, which is a circle roughly two miles across.”

Dean whistled slightly and then spoke. “So, ignore the wards we have now,” and he said this slowly, like he was trying to puzzle it out himself. “And build entirely new ones that just protect the buildings. We could worry about making new ones for the outside area later; we just don’t want Crowley and Rowena getting into the bunker, right?”

Jessie stared at him with something akin to respect. “That,” she said, “Is _genius_. That way Rowena can exhaust herself taking down the main wards and then she’ll be faced with a whole new set of wards in a language she’s never _seen_ before.”

“I’ll start working on the wording,” Gabriel said, sitting down with a pen and paper and immediately marking out what Dean figured had to be old Enochian. It looked...weird. _Primeval_.

“I’ll go gather what we need,” Anna said, moving away from the table. She glanced at Dean before she left, smiling gently, and then she was gone.

“I’ll find the main support structure,” Castiel said. 

“Good idea. It needs to be something that touches every part of the building, a center pole of some sort. If I know the Men of Letters, probably reinforced iron of some sort. We can build the warding off of that and then shore it up on the walls.” Jessie nodded at him.

Cas disappeared too, and Jessie turned toward Dean and Meg. “Did the Men of Letters have any fine crystal?”

Dean blinked at her. “What?”

“We’re going to be working with blood,” Jessie said. “Mine and the angels. We need fine crystal, old-school, the kind made with lead. I can purify it, but it’ll need to hold a kind of large amount of blood.”

Dean blinked and then his brain immediately turned to the inventory of the bunker he and Sam’d started up back before -- and he shied away from his death and rebirth as a demon.

“I think so. How big do you need it?” he asked.

She thought. “We’re gonna need about a gallon or two of our blood, total, between the four of us. With angels and the Son of God protecting the place, Rowena won’t stand a chance. But we need to hurry, cuz we’ll need to cast the initial wards and then do each of the major outer walls.”

Dean considered. “I have a big crystal serving bowl from like 1855,” he said. “Might hold a gallon. I think the only other thing we have even coming close to that size is a half-gallon pitcher but I’m not sure if it has lead in it.”

“Go find them,” Jessie requested. “Bring them back here and I can see if they’ll work for what we need.”

Dean did as he was told. 

**\+ + + + +**

Rowena finally, after three hours of work, pulled the wards on the Men of Letters bunker down. Smiling as the last thread of them dissolved at her magical touch, she reached out to open the door.

She and the two demons that were standing nearest her were blasted backwards; she fell into a soft body and found that she’d knocked her son over.

“Bloody _clever_ ,” she muttered, standing up and dusting herself off.

“What?” Crowley said, doing the same.

“Wards are connected to the earth,” Rowena said, irritated, as she began mentally trying to parse these new wards that she was sensing. “That’s why you usually wind up with a sphere of protection -- because the circle itself is the binding point to the wards. But this building is partially underground, and they’ve warded the _actual bloody building_.” She nudged the wards again and recoiled, physically, as they pushed back. “In some sort of language -- I think they _created_ it. I can’t break these wards, not right now, anyway. The syntax _alone_ is a bugger.”

Raum actually _snarled_. “All of that work for _nothing_?”

“Not nothing,” Rowena said. “They have to come out sometime. They’re safe in their little hidey-hole, but if they leave for supplies, or any other reason, they’re vulnerable.” She smiled. “The minute they set foot on the grounds, they’re no longer protected.”

“That doesn’t help us right now,” Crowley said, practically growling in his irritation. “I want the Winchesters _dead_.”

“All in good time,” Rowena said. She dug in her pockets, pulling out a vial and dumping it onto the dirt at her feet. Reaching downward, she touched the puddle with her fingertips, concentrating; a wave of green light flashed and flowed through the ground itself, spreading the magic from the potion throughout the entire area that the wards had encompassed. “The moment one of them sets foot here, we’ll be alerted.”

“I hope it’s Dean,” Hastur said, vindictively. Her eyes flashed. 

**\+ + + + +**

Safely ensconced in the warehouse above, Jessie, Meg, and Castiel watched as Rowena tried to turn the very earth they were surrounded by against them.

“I can neutralize that,” Castiel said. Jessie grabbed him by the arm.

“Wait on it,” she said. “Wait until they’ve all dispersed for the day. And then we can neutralize it in a way that won’t alert Rowena.”

“She’ll think she’s got the upper hand, and she won’t,” Meg said, approvingly. She leaned into Jessie. “Knew there was a reason I kept you around. Almost Slytherin of you.”

“Harry Potter,” Castiel said, taken aback. 

“Yes, Harry Potter, you big _Hufflepuff_ ,” Meg said, nudging him playfully with her elbow. Then the three of them disappeared.

**\+ + + + +**

The wards had only just gone up in time, the angels working at full-tilt to ward the walls while Jessie worked with the support pillar that went from the top to the bottom of the current wards, helping set the boundary and connecting the entire complex. To find they hadn’t needed to prepare, that there wasn’t going to be a battle, was almost anticlimactic, and the adrenalin rush followed by exactly _no_ action had left everyone exhausted. Nearly everyone took off for a mid-day nap -- except for Benny, who pulled Dean and Castiel with him into the library.

“Just before, ah, just before New York,” Benny said, glancing at Dean. “Jessie offered to cure me.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Of being a vampire?”

“Yeah. She said she could do it, an’ after seeing her take care of you I believe her.”

“Do you wish to be human again?” Cas asked, curiously. 

“I didn’t know for a while,” Benny said, glancing downward. “Until you started passin’ sandwiches around, anyway, Dean. I wanted more than anything to have a bite of egg salad, ‘stead of blood.”

“So you’re gonna do it?” Dean asked. “Trust her with your life like that?”

Benny looked down and then looked back up at them. “Yeah, I’m gonna do it,” he said, his face serious. “I’m gonna ask her to cure me.”


	15. Episode Fourteen - Immortals (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am running out of episodes to post, so yeah, I'm gonna switch to an every-other-Thursday posting schedule until I can get some more material written.

** Episode Fourteen - Immortals (Part One) **

**__** _They say we are what we are_

_But we don’t have to be_

_I’m bad behavior but I do it in the best way_

_I’ll be the watcher of the eternal flame_

_I’ll be the guard dog of all your fever dreams_

_I am the sand in the bottom half of the hourglass_

_I try to picture me without you but I can’t_

_Cuz we could be immortals_

_Immortals_

_Just not for long, for long_

_And live with me forever now_

_You pull the blackout curtains down_

_Just not for long, for long_

\--Fall Out Boy, “Immortals”

_“Do you wish to be human again?” Cas asked, curiously._

_“I didn’t know for a while,” Benny said, glancing downward. “Until you started passin’ sandwiches around, anyway, Dean. I wanted more than anything to have a bite of egg salad, ‘stead of blood.”_

_“So you’re gonna do it?” Dean asked. “Trust her with your life like that?”_

_Benny looked down and then looked back up at them. “Yeah, I’m gonna do it,” he said, his face serious. “I’m gonna ask her to cure me.”_

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie closed the door as she exited the room; a gold plate behind her proclaimed the room to be number 7. She turned and almost plowed directly into Dean Winchester.

“Is he okay?” Dean asked, suspiciously crossing his arms and eyeing her.

Jessie rolled his eyes. “Changing someone from a Knight of Hell and changing someone from a vampire are two different things. One’s at a cosmic-scale level, and the other’s just _genetics_. He’s resting; it took a lot out of him. But _I’m_ fine, thanks for asking.” She huffed and headed back toward the main room, Dean trailing behind her.

Jessie’d made Benny sleep on it for a few days, to ensure that he really _wanted_ it and it wasn’t just a sudden fancy, but his mind had remained unchanged, and so it was today, Friday, August 14th -- exactly a week after Dean had been cured -- that Benny Lafitte had undergone the change from vampire to human. 

“Is he doing okay?” Sam asked, standing up. Jessie waved him off and gave the entire group the explanation she’d given Dean before sitting down. She didn’t even look a _little_ tired.

Dean still wasn’t talking much, although he’d found that if he breathed deeply before trying the pressure in his jaw eased a bit. He’d been so wound up that he’d been completely silent and pacing, though, so Victor had taken it upon himself to throw something together for lunch -- some sort of soup. Everyone was eating, and Dean helped himself to a bowl of it and setting it at his normal spot before flinging himself into his chair, petulantly.

“Fuck, it’s like you don’t _trust_ me,” Jessie said. She rolled her eyes theatrically. “I _disassembled myself_ for your dumb ass, have a little gratitude.” And she pointed at him with a spoon; she’d helped herself to the soup before Dean’d even reached the pot.

“I barely know you,” Dean muttered, mutinously, but he started eating his soup anyway. 

“Well, _I_ know her,” Meg said. She winked at Jessie. “I’ll vouch for her.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ a ringing endorsement,” Kevin said, flicking a piece of paper at Meg. The demon made it burst into flames before it reached her and Kevin flicked another in quick succession. “No magic! That’s cheating!”

“I’m a demon, I cheat, it’s _what I do_ ,” Meg countered, flicking another piece of paper back at the prophet.

“Behave,” Linda said, raising her eyebrow and managing to make everyone at the table feel like they’d personally disappointed her. “We’re all adults here.”

“Some more than others,” Charlie muttered, almost as mutinously as Dean had earlier. 

Dean looked around him and realized that, while he’d been gone, this group of people had somehow managed to create themselves a little family. He almost felt on the outside of it all, like his time in Hell had managed to make him inhuman. And yet, there was Castiel; and there was Meg; and Benny had only _just_ become human, and he was pretty much universally accepted by everyone here.

He’d never been so surrounded by people he loved while simultaneously feeling so alone.

“I’ll have you know that I’m several thousand years old,” Sam said, drawing himself up and pretending to be _way_ more serious than he should be. He grinned at Dean and nudged him slightly with his elbow.

Dean snorted. “Hell’ll do that to you, yeah,” he said. He froze, half-expecting everyone to go quiet, but Charlie screeched that it didn’t count if you didn’t _remember_ it, and Victor fished a piece of celery out of his soup and used his spoon to launch it at her from across the table. Slowly, in increments, Dean felt himself relax again.

“I suppose that makes me the only _true_ adult here,” Castiel mused. “As I am several billion years old.”

“Yeah, you’re a real Father Time,” Dean said, snorting. The urge to go grab a beer, even though it was just past noon, was strong, but he resisted. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since he’d been cured and he kind of wanted it to stay that way, at least for a little while. He had never been more terrified in his _life_ that he might loosen up enough to actually talk to someone.

“Yeah, well, I caught _you_ looking up gardening tips yesterday,” Jessie said, pointing at Dean with her spoon again. “Does that make you Mother Nature?”

Dean’s face went bright red, and Kevin laughed.

Charlie’s eyes lit up. “Gardening? Like that old kitchen garden? Because once we get the grounds re-warded, I thought about planting some zucchini out there. Three words: _Deep. Fried. Zucchini._ ”

“ _Knew_ there was a reason we kept you around,” Dean said, following that comment up with a spoonful of soup. Charlie smirked at him; the fact that she’d rescued him from a joke about his “profound bond” with Cas was not lost on either of them.

The dishes were being cleared up by nearly everyone who’d partaken of the soup when Jessie’s phone rang. She set down her bowl and pulled said phone out of her pocket, glancing down at it with a frown. “I need to take this. It’s _not_ Bela,” she said, pointedly, and then walked into the other room, where they could hear her answering the call, but not the content. Dean and Sam shrugged at each other and continued clearing up with everyone else; in what Dean felt was a pretty damn adult show of maturity, he picked up Jessie’s bowl and spoon, as well as the empty can of Coke she’d left behind.

They left Kevin, who’d drawn dish duty, with the pile of dishes in the kitchen and headed back toward the main room again; Charlie and Sam were slowly transcribing, with Castiel’s help, as many of the books that they could in the Men of Letters’ library. This involved a lot of scanning and cleaning up in Photoshop, then translating, then uploading to Charlie’s hunting database, and occasionally Kevin, Victor, and Benny helped out as well. 

Meg could sometimes be roped into it too, especially when Jessie volunteered her translation services alongside Cas. Dean, who preferred a real book to anything digital, refused to have anything to do with the project. Although frankly, he suspected that his reticence had less to do with analog vs. digital and more to do with the fact that the idea of spending more time with everyone than he _had_ to gave him chills.

He tried not to think about it too hard.

Apparently the project had been going on for a while. Every time the group had downtime, they worked on it -- which, according to Sam, had been a _lot_ , as they’d kind of been bunking down in the bunker (pun _intended_ , Dean thought to himself) while Crowley was loose and Dean was King of Hell. About half of the books in the library had been scanned in and uploaded to the database online, which Charlie said was the most important part -- that way, if any of the books were damaged, destroyed, or lost, they had a copy to work with. That in itself was impressive, because there were a _lot_ of books.

Castiel translated whenever he had a free moment from his Heavenly duties, or whenever he was bored, from what Dean could tell. 

Charlie’s ultimate goal was to do the Men of Letters library, and then Bobby’s immense collection of weird shit as well, which Jody had possession of. Then, when everything was properly translated, she’d design an algorithm that would cross-reference shit, so that if you typed in “missing hearts,” any relevant text regarding that would come up, and if you clicked on one, it’d reference other materials.

Then any time they came across anything new, they’d have an already established procedure and database to add to.

It would be a boon to the hunting community, Dean had to give her that. He vastly preferred searching Google to trying to figure out the Men of Letters’ weird cataloguing procedure -- the Dewey Decimal System it _wasn’t_ , that was for sure.

Cas had also offered to fill in any blanks and notate incorrect information. Angelic correction could only help, as far as pretty much everyone was concerned, although Charlie worried how to cite it properly. Dean’d suggested that she simply cite the corrections, “As per the Holy Word of Castiel, Angel of Thursday,” since nearly every hunter these days knew the Winchesters rolled with at least one angel. Cas hadn’t taken the suggestion very well, although which part of it he objected to, Dean couldn’t tell.

The hunter was pulled from this thoughts when Jessie got back to the main room; she was frowning, which he figured could only mean trouble. “That was a friend of mine in South Korea,” she said. Then she descended into silence, chewing on a lip.

“And that has to do with us... _how_?” Sam asked. His brows had drawn together, making a little wifi-symbol between his eyebrows, and Dean was suddenly gut-punched by how much he’d _missed_ his brother.

He sat down. Hard.

“Fel -- um, dual-name, Felix for boy days, Felicity for girl days -- well, they’re American,” Jessie explained, sitting down across from Dean. She looked troubled. “They retired from hunting a few years back, went to South Korea to teach English.” She glanced up at them all. “You don’t get a lot of traditional demonic crap in Asia; not a lot of hellgates, and there’s scarier shit than _demons_ to deal with over there. Including things that _eat demons_. So mostly demons, as _we_ know them, stick to the Americas and Europe, with occasional forays into Africa.”

“What, no demonic penguins?” Charlie said, sitting down as well. Slowly, everyone’d joined them at the table; even Kevin, who heard the commotion and wandered out from the kitchen, arms still slightly sudsy. 

Jessie snorted. “Not really, no. Um, thing is, like I said -- demons tend to stay out of Asia as a whole. If you get demonic activity there it tends to be in Russia; more Christianity around those parts. Still, the majority of the continent stays fairly demon-free. But Fel has been seeing a lot of demons lately; like, a _strangely large amount_ , in _Busan_. And they’re concerned it’s a little over their pay grade.”

Dean blinked. “But Asia has a _bunch_ of kinds of demons. Bobby had to learn fluent Japanese cuz of ‘em.”

“Yeah, _Asian_ demons.” Jessie shrugged. “They’re different. Eve’s creatures, mainly, or born from the land itself; not demons as _we_ know them, and they’re a _hell_ of a lot more dangerous.” She shuddered. “For future reference, never fuck with a Korean land spirit. A broken promise will fuck up your _entire month_. Just trust me.”

Dean stared at her and she shrugged again, indicating firsthand experience, and he felt a sort of gaping hole in his midsection. What in Asia could exist that could exert power over the literal _Son of God_?

“So for some reason demons -- most of which are back under Crowley’s control -- are in Korea right now,” Sam summarized, dragging everyone’s attention to him. Charlie hadn’t stopped scanning before, but at this, she set the book she was working with down, frowning.

“Yeah,” Jessie said, nodding. Her phone rang again and she glanced down at it. “ _This_ time it’s Bela,” she said, answering it. “Yeah?”

There was some mumbling on the other end, which no one except Meg was close enough to pick up. Her face, however, stayed impassive.

“Right,” Jessie said, setting the phone down after some weird double-talk. “So Bela isn’t sure what’s going on in Korea, but _something_ is, and it has to do with Crowley’s little Hell-on-Earth scheme, so... I need to go to Korea.”

“I’m coming with,” Meg said, expression belligerent. Like she expected Jessie to object.

“I think we should come too,” Sam said. He glanced around the table. “Dean and I, anyway.”

“Absolutely,” Jessie said. “Castiel too.”

There was an almost _immediate_ uproar -- Victor and Charlie were shouting that they weren’t useless in a fight and could help, Kevin and Linda stating in no uncertain terms that they were the only _actually Asian_ people among the group so why the hell couldn’t _they_ come? Sam immediately started arguing that he just didn’t want anyone to get hurt, and Meg started in on Victor not even knowing who the _Kardashians_ were so why the hell would he know _shit_ about ancient demonic forces?

Jessie let loose with a massive whistle that shut everyone the hell up. “I have perfectly legitimate reasons for wanting you four to stay behind,” she said. “You all have different aspects of hunting down pat, but you’re not hunters, not yet. However, Benny -- he’s _human_ now. He’s lost his preternatural defenses, and you guys are gonna have to work with him.” She turned to Linda and Kevin. “That means learning how to properly shoot a gun and good hand-to-hand skills, because he can’t just rip someone’s throat out now.” She turned to Victor and Charlie. “That means teaching him how to use a computer the right way, how to impersonate an officer of the law, how to get access to records. And,” and she inhaled. “He needs to know all of these, even if he decides to leave and go live a human life.”

There was a silence at that, and Charlie made a noise of distress. “Benny wouldn’t _leave_ us.”

“He has every right to,” Dean interjected, angrily. 

“I didn’t say he _didn’t_ ,” Charlie shot back, tears starting to leak out of her eyes now. “But he’s _family_. He belongs _here_ , with _us_.”

“I get where you’re coming from,” Cas said, slowly. “And I agree, I’d rather Benny stay in the bunker. But just in case, you should do what you did for the others and prepare a life for him.”

“Just in case,” Jessie agreed, somberly. 

**\+ + + + +**

There was some argument about how they were going to get to Korea. As much as Dean disliked flying, he disliked teleporting _even more_. On the other hand, Kansas City International to Gimhae International was a long flight, 20 hours, _not_ including the three-hour layover in San Francisco and the hour and a half in Beijing. Dean didn’t know if he could take 20 hours in a metal death trap. Then, of course, there was customs to think about -- there was no way either of the Winchesters were going into a situation involving demons unarmed, and South Korea, like most countries in the world (with one notable exception, Jessie pointed out wryly) had very strict gun-control measures in place. 

They finally decided to fly Jesus Christ Airways, courtesy Jessie and Castiel. Charlie, still sniffling at the idea of Benny taking off, produced legitimate-looking passports for all four of them with lots of stamps from a few different countries, including South Korea, and managed to make it look like they’d gone through customs yesterday in Seoul. 

By the time everyone had packed and prepared themselves, Benny had woken up, been briefed on where the five of them were going, and had eaten leftover soup, which he seemed to savor. It brought much-needed color to his cheeks, and he wished everyone well.

Meg packed light, a backpack slung over her shoulder and a duffel full of weaponry in her hand. Sam and Jessie, not so much -- both of them had the requisite duffel of weapons, but they also had several changes of clothing, laptops, cell phones and chargers, makeup (in Jessie’s case) and ridiculous hair care products (in Sam’s case) and extensive first-aid kits. Among other things.

Dean, who’d managed to fit both his clothes _and_ his weapons into the one duffel, eyed Meg, who laughed and grabbed Jessie’s arm. Jessie managed to drape her luggage around her and snag Sam’s elbow with her free hand, and the three blinked out of existence. 

One of Sam’s bags was still laying there. Dean sighed and gathered it up along with his bag, and then turned toward Cas. 

The angel had no luggage whatsoever, being an angel. Everything he needed was either in his pockets (cell phone, passport, fake FBI badge) or in another plane of existence (wings, grace, sword). 

“I am going to fly you to Korea now,” Cas announced, reaching out with two fingers. Dean flinched and the angel froze. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean said, gesturing in what he belatedly recognized was a futile manner. He remembered, _vividly_ , the last time Castiel had reached out like that and actually been able to _do_ something.

Castiel’s face contorted and he said nothing, but he grabbed Dean by the shoulder. The two disappeared.

“Man, Cas’s got it _bad_ for Dean,” Kevin announced to the room. He launched a paper airplane, watching it swoop through the air until it collided with Benny’s temple.

Benny chuckled. “Son, you don’t know the _half_ of it.” He continued eating his soup. It was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

**\+ + + + +**

Cas landed them outside a bank; Sam and Meg were standing casually outside, their bags at their feet. Sam grinned when Dean handed him the bag that’d been left behind.

“Thanks. I’d be a pain in the ass if I lost this.” Dean raised his eyebrow; he happened to know that bag, and it was the bag Sam kept his electronics in. It wasn’t like Jessie hadn’t _also_ brought a laptop and tablet. How many did they need?

Speak of the devil. Or, uh. Messiah? Anyway, Jessie stepped out of the bank; her bags had been left outside with Sam and Meg, and she was carrying a purse, which Dean was unaware she even knew how to use. 

“I _heard_ that,” Jessie said, turning to look at Dean, who made a face at her. “It was _loud_. I’ve been a woman more times than you can _count_ , fucker. Of _course_ I know how to use a purse.” She withdrew a wallet, from which she pulled wads of Korean won and began distributing them amongst the group. “I didn’t have time to get you guys cards for the account I have here, so I just had to pull a lot of cash. This should keep us going.” With that, she slung her bags back around her and, pulling out an iPad, began walking with purpose.

Eventually she led them to a hotel, a really nice one, where she’d apparently booked them rooms on the iPad. It was downright luxurious, and Dean took in the decor with slightly widened eyes as they walked in; he was pushing a luggage cart with their crap on it, and that meant he got to go in first. Sam noted that it was similar to the suite setup they’d had on the way to New York, with multiple rooms and a kitchen and living room. Basically, a small temporary (luxury) apartment.

“If I’m coming to Busan I’m going to live it up a little,” Jessie said, grinning. “It’s no Seoul, but it’s a great place to vacation, even if we have to work too.”

There were three rooms in the suite; Meg and Jessie claimed the one with the king-size bed in it, leaving Sam and Dean each a queen bed. Castiel, of course, didn’t need to sleep and likely wouldn’t even stay in Korea while they were sleeping. 

It’d been just after 5 p.m. Friday when they’d left Kansas, which meant business had just opened up for Saturday when they arrived in Korea. Luckily Busan was something of a resort town, or at least _used to tourists_ , and the banks had _some_ hours open Saturdays.

They unpacked, not sure how long they’d be there, and Jessie and Cas warded the hotel room with their own blood, ensuring no one could come in or go out without their express permission (Meg, Sam, and Dean excluded, of course). Jessie also put a call in that for the week she’d booked the room stating that she didn’t want housekeeping service (she also hung the “do not disturb” placard on the suite’s door), so hopefully no one would bother them. It wouldn’t do for housekeeping to find a large stockpile of very-much-illegal-in-this-country firearms and other assorted weaponry. It also protected them from a variety of other creatures, including the ones most common to Korea and regular garden-variety demons (Meg excluded, once again). Jessie, while warding, chuckled that they probably didn’t needed to ward against humans _here_. No one but Castiel got the reference, in a weird switch, and apparently it had something to do with Korean manners regarding personal places.

Then the five of them wandered back out to the streets. Jessie seemed to know where she was going, as she led them through the crowd to a small restaurant, which served a good Korean breakfast. She ordered in flawless Korean, Busan dialect, for all of them, and then they sat and waited.

**\+ + + + +**

Their breakfast had arrived when suddenly Dean sat up straight in his seat. 

“What’s up?” Sam asked, licking porridge off of his lips. He’d liked the _jeonbokjuk_ Dean’d made a few days ago, but as usual, nothing really held a candle to the real thing; this was _delicious_. 

“I just remembered something,” Dean said, tightly. “I had spies, you know, in Crowley’s ranks, and there was _something_ \-- I just can’t remember the details. Something about a relic that contains human souls that only a particular kind of spirit -- a _Korean_ one -- can create.” He squinted. “If I could just _remember_ \--”

He was interrupted by a shadow falling over the table; Jessie looked completely unsurprised, and she stood up, hugging the figure in question.

“Fel!” she cried.

“Jessie,” Fel acknowledged. They were wearing light, natural-looking makeup and a dress, and had shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair, down loose about their shoulders.

“Felicity today?” Jessie asked, eyes twinkling. Fel nodded and sat at the empty seat none of them had paid any attention to, and the place setting that was there was quickly filled from the communal dishes. 

They did not discuss business while they were eating; instead, Fel and Jessie caught up on things in strangely-coded language that the two of them seemed to understand almost instinctively. Jessie paid the bill using a Korean debit card, and the group was allowed to linger over tea.

_This_ was when they talked business.

“I first noticed it about a week ago,” Fel said. They fiddled with the spoon that sat next to their tea. “Sulfur _everywhere_. I didn’t make the connection at first, because sometimes things just smell for no reason, and I didn’t expect Christian demons to make an appearance here.” They took a sip of the tea, like they had to loosen their tongue. “But then I saw the _eyes_ , early this morning on my way home from a work party. They’re mostly congregating at this high-end club downtown, as far as I can tell, but I don’t know _why_. It’s _dangerous_ in Busan for Christian demons. There’s a _haetae_ who’s decided that Busan is _hers_ , and she mostly leaves the humans alone, but allegedly, she has a taste for the demonic. Likes sulfur, I guess.”

Meg’s fingertips flew to her protective charm, the one Jessie’d made to hide her nature from damn near everything on the planet, and under the table Jessie squeezed her fingers reassuringly. 

“Maybe they struck up a deal with her for something?” Sam questioned. Fel shrugged.

“It’s _possible_ , although most of the _haetae_ don’t like consorting with demons. It’s more likely they have a liaison of some sort; a being _not_ disinclined to make deals with Christian demons who made the deal for them.” Fel’s words were stilted and had a slight Korean accent, a different cadence to their speech; like they’d been speaking almost exclusively Korean for long enough that they’d begun to forget their native English, despite teaching it.

“I thought you got out of the game?” Jessie asked, sharply. Fel shrugged.

“I mostly have, but I’ve ... _parleyed_ , I guess you could say, with a few spirits and whatnot. There’s not much of a hunting community in Busan, and I’ve negotiated a few treaties and ceasefires. And had to take out one particularly terrible _gwishin_.” They shuddered. “Nobody does hauntings like Korea does hauntings.”

Dean’s jaw’d clamped shut again. Which was unfortunate, because he wanted to ask questions about the local mythology. For all he teased Sam about being a giant nerd, he was _interested_. 

His stomach churned. 

“You know as well as I do,” Fel continued, staring at Jessie, who looked annoyed. “That there is _nowhere on this Earth_ where I’m _not_ going to encounter something. I’ve had a pretty easy time of it here; most of the spirits and creatures are inclined to keep to themselves, and those that aren’t prefer to blend in and live as humans. I’m doing _fine_ , Jessie. I’m _happy_.” They grinned. “There are a lot of _Gasin_ who live here, among the humans; I have Eopsin and Samsin over on Sundays for dinner. It’s perfect.”

“Not taken to haunting pots and pans anymore, the _Gasin_?” Jessie asked, and Fel chuckled, but didn’t answer.

The rest of the conversation revolved around where the club was located and what Fel had been able to notice about it. Castiel got the location from her mind and nodded, saying he could take them there easily.

“ _Without_ flight,” he said, quietly, in Dean’s direction. With that, the group stood, and Fel hugged Jessie again, fiercely, before they departed.

The stranger gone, Dean found his jaw unlocked itself, and he breathed heavily. Sam and Meg immediately launched into a discussion with Jessie as they headed back toward the hotel; making plans to case the club out before they all slept for the day -- jet lag, after all, was a bitch.

Cas, however, put his hand on Dean’s shoulder, stopping him in his place. The angel appeared concerned, and looked him right in the eye. “Are you okay, Dean?”

Dean breathed in again, hard; his first instinct was to lie, but this was _Cas_. “I think I _will_ be,” he said. “Eventually. But not right now, no, I’m not.” It hurt even to _admit_ that, but he trusted Cas more than pretty much anyone; still, he gave the angel the Dean Winchester patented bullshit smile and shrugged.

Cas smiled back, but it was a smile tinged with pain, and instead of saying anything, he simply pulled away from Dean and gestured toward the door, indicating that Dean should go ahead of him.

Cas had his back, of course he did. He _always_ did.

**\+ + + + +**

“So what’s the deal with you and Fel?” Meg asked, casual-like, as the group wandered back into the suite. 

Jessie raised her eyebrow. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said. “Fel’s my friend and I got them out of a tight spot about five years ago, when the Apocalypse was at its height. I helped them get to Korea and start over when they lost everything, but Fel’s sent me some really esoteric Korean shit for my business interests, so it goes both ways.”

Meg frowned. “You guys hugged pretty affectionately, is all I’m saying,” she replied. 

“Because we’re _friends_ and _affectionate_ with one another,” Jessie said, confused. “Not everyone is a hardass who doesn’t like to show -- oh my God, you think we were _lovers_.”

Meg did not confirm or deny this.

Jessie stared at the demon. “Are you _jealous_?” she asked, incredulous. “You _have_ to know that between _you_ and _you_ there were other people, since all of my kids have been prophets and there’ve been _kind of a lot of those_.”

“Yeah, I’m standing this one out,” Sam said, beelining toward the kitchen. He had the leftovers from breakfast and he studiously stashed them in the refrigerator -- which he noticed was loaded up with beer, bottles of water, and soda. He wasn’t sure if Jessie had done that or if this was just _that_ top-tier of a hotel room.

Dean flopped on the couch, not quite out of range of Meg and Jessie’s upcoming blowout, but far away enough that he probably wouldn’t get hit with anything. Cas took the chair to his left, farther away from the two.

“Fel and I have a _bond_ ,” Jessie was explaining. Dean sat straight upward at this. “When something with the divine spark -- with _grace_ \-- saves someone’s life, a bond is formed. Sometimes it’s quite strong, and sometimes it’s negligible. If you’re already affectionate with the person, or are predisposed toward that affection, then you’re going to be more inclined to show it, that’s all.”

“So you’re affectionate with Fel? How often?” Meg countered. Dean got the idea that they hadn’t discussed monogamy yet, which he thought was probably a _colossally_ bad idea on both of their parts.

“Once every five years we hug,” Jessie said, sardonically. “We’ve got it pencilled into our day planners.” Meg looked less than impressed at this explanation, and Jessie’s voice ramped up nearly an octave. “For _fuck’s sake,_ Meg, Fel is _asexual_. Even if we _had_ that kind of connection, a romantic one -- which we _don’t_ \-- it wouldn’t have been consummated; they’re sex-repulsed. Calm your tits.”

“Asexual?” Dean muttered under his breath. He remembered biology and the entire semester the class had spent on sexual versus asexual reproduction and how a species propagated genetics that way, but he’d never heard of a person capable of splitting in two that wasn’t supernatural.

“Asexual is a sexual orientation, Dean,” Cas explained, calmly. He’d taken to fiddling with the remote, trying to turn on the TV. Probably a good idea, because Jessie and Meg had looks on their faces which indicated that they’d made up (or were about to) and were gonna do some consummation of their own. “It means that someone does not experience sexual attraction, or if they do they don’t feel a drive to act on it. I’m given to understand that it’s a different experience for every asexual person.” Finally, the remote brought the TV to life and Cas switched it over to some K-drama and pointedly turned up the volume, just as Meg and Jessie shut their bedroom door behind them. 

“Huh.” Dean pondered this for a few minutes, while Castiel raptly watched the K-drama that Dean couldn’t understand. Then he asked a question: “Is sexual orientation a humans-only thing?”

“Yes... and no,” Cas said, turning away from the TV. “Humans are, as far as I know, the only ones who have put _names_ to their sexual and romantic desires. But from what I can tell, nearly all creatures have some sort of sexual or romantic orientation, whether it’s a complete lack of it or the ability to accept love or sex from all genders.” He shrugged. “It seems very complicated to me, trying to label something that could be different from person to person, but I suppose it probably makes people feel better to know they’re not alone.”

Dean tried to figure out how to phrase his next question without giving himself away. “So do demons just go full-on gay when they get turned into demons?”

Cas stared at him for a minute, trying to parse his meaning. “No,” Cas said, slowly. “Not that I’m aware of, anyway. A demon is a human soul; corrupted, but human nonetheless. Except in the case of fallen angels.” He frowned. “I expect most demons would either retain the sexuality they had prior to their descent into Hell, or, if their torture took the form of sexual assault, possibly revert to celibacy as a form of damage control.” He thought about it some more before adding, “I suppose that if a person had any hang-ups over their sexuality before descending, demonhood would probably erase those hang-ups. To be fair, that seems to be prevalent among _most_ humans who’ve been turned into something non-human.”

He snorted and turned back toward the television. “Humans are the only ones so self-absorbed to think that sexuality actually _matters_.”

“You’re saying it _doesn’t_?” Dean asked, surprised. 

“Not really, no.” Cas was flipping through the channels now, bored. “My Father never cared either way, and no one in the Heavenly ranks gave it much thought. Of course, we were wavelengths of celestial intent and didn’t inhabit bodies without reason, although some of us _did_ develop gender identities, so sexual relations were something we didn’t engage in very often. I suppose it never crossed our minds.”

“Yeah, but what about that whole ‘lie with a man as a woman’ thing in the Bible?” Dean said. “Like, there’s whole _cults_ built around the idea of gay people being hell-bound, and they have some pretty good Biblical case studies.”

“When have you ever known the Bible to get everything a hundred percent correct?” Cas said, wryly, turning his head toward Dean and smirking. “It was written by prophets that came before Jessie existed; their view into the celestial was...shaky at best.” He sighed and explained. “As long as a person’s sexual escapades aren’t hurting anyone -- as long as it’s not coerced rape, or violent rape, or using sex against another person to cause harm in some way, or sex with someone or something that cannot consent -- most everyone in Heaven doesn’t care.”

Then the angel snorted as something occurred to him. “It would be difficult to argue a case against sexuality in regards to access to Heaven anyway; the few angels that _have_ engaged in sexual acts tend toward the pansexual. Gabriel himself would be banned from the Halls if we prohibited access based on sodomy or other same-sex relations.”

With that, Cas seemed to consider the conversation over, and he turned back to the TV.

Sam, who’d wandered over with a beer toward the end of the conversation, flung himself into the chair on Dean’s right, opposite Castiel. “An entire race of pansexual beings? That sounds kind of amazing.”

Cas blinked and then turned to Sam. “I didn’t say that _all_ angels are pansexual, just that those who have engaged in coitus tend to be. This is mostly because a lot of us don’t develop a real gender identity in the first place -- in Gabriel’s case, I think he’s just a hedonist. But Anna considers herself a woman, and also identifies as heterosexual.”

“Yeah, but she was also human for a while,” Sam said, sipping off of his beer. He hadn’t offered one to Dean, and Dean realized his brother had been keeping tabs on what he did and didn’t consume. 

“True,” Cas admitted. “Another case, then -- I spoke with Gadreel recently. He spent most of his time away from Earth, and yet he does consider himself a man, and also exclusively homosexual. His lover is a fellow angel, Abner, also recently resurrected, who considers himself a man and pansexual. Neither of them have actually _been_ human, although Abner had a taste of the human life prior to his first death.”

“Huh.” Sam tried to parse this for a few seconds. Then he asked the question Dean had been studiously trying to avoid. “So, you’ve had sex. What do you consider yourself?”

Cas blinked. “I’ve never really given it much thought,” he said. “I suppose I’ve inhabited my vessel for long enough that I consider myself male, although I never really had a gender identity prior to taking Jimmy as a vessel.” He thought about this for a few minutes, very quiet. The two brothers sat, stiffly aware that they’d brought up a facet of Castiel that he hadn’t really known about himself. “What a strange feeling,” the angel continued. He seemed to be mentally turning the idea of having a gender identity around in his head. 

“I’ll bet,” Dean muttered. He was a dude too, through and through, but he’d never struggled with his gender identity -- although he knew a few trans people who had and empathized well enough with their issues. Hey, he was a Democrat, or had been when’d actually bothered to vote, despite his dad’s devout conservatism. Maybe in response to it, he didn’t know. He just knew that he’d seen enough of the variety of life to know that condemning it on Earth was stupid. But it was nice to know that his views had Heavenly approval.

“With that said, considering myself male,” Cas said, slowly, “I’m still unsure of what my sexuality would be. Had my singular sexual encounter been more consensual and less -- _terrifying_ , I guess -- I’m sure I’d have gone on to experiment more. But the experience left a bad taste in my mouth and I haven’t indulged enough to really discern if I have a sexuality at all, let alone what my preferences are.”

“Great big question mark, huh?” Dean said, fingers twitching. He was glad they’d moved from the topic of demonic sexual preference prior to Sam coming back to the living room, because he _really_ didn’t want to discuss that. _At all_. “I’m sure there’s lots of people who share the feeling.”

Cas eyed him, that soul-baring stare that he had that made Dean feel like he was reading Dean like a book, before he turned back toward the TV. “I’m sure there are, Dean.”

**\+ + + + +**

They were in the middle of casing the joint from the rooftop of an adjacent building, mid-afternoon, when Dean suddenly stood up straight and swore, _loudly_ , drawing the attention of several passers-by, who craned their heads upward. The group quickly ducked back from the parapet, and Dean toned his voice down before speaking again.

“I remember what it is now,” he said. “It’s a club, like a literal _club_ , not the one across the street -- I think it was called a _bangmang’i_. It’s rare and _really_ powerful, and it’s got nine separate souls inside of it. It’s used to boost power, and the souls are trapped in a way that they’re sort of self-charging batteries.” He shrugged, helplessly. “That’s what my guys had on the whole thing; we were working on other aspects of shit and I didn’t pay a lot of attention, to be honest.” Then he clammed up; he didn’t like talking about his time in Hell.

Jessie immediately began swearing in several different languages. This took a minute or two; the rest of the group stared at her in stunned silence. Castiel, at least, looked impressed with her vocabulary. Reluctantly, Dean had to agree -- the bit of Spanish he knew, and his impressive Latin lexicon, let him understand enough to recognize that she was cursing the Fates themselves, and a whole lot of other things too.

“We’re up against a minor trickster god, then,” she said, finally. “What’s weird is that normally the _Go Dokkaebi_ , which are the ones who can _create_ a _bangmang’i_ , don’t meddle in human affairs to this level. Not these days, anyway; they mostly stay off the radar and fuck with people who _deserve_ it.” She shuddered. “ _Bangmang’i_ haven’t been created in _centuries_ , because they require the souls of the innocent. That’s what keeps them recharging -- they can’t have committed sin.”

“What kind of sin are we talking about here?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrow. “Like, virgins?”

Jessie shook her head and snorted. “Sex isn’t a sin, so -- no. Not that some of the creatures that hang out in Asia, and other places, _don’t_ care about stupid shit like virginity, cuz for some of them it’s like the most important aspect of what they do. But that’s _not_ what a _bangmang’i_ needs.” She inhaled and then launched into the explanation. 

“It needs someone -- _nine_ someones, actually -- who’ve never taken another life, who’ve never wronged another purposely, who’ve never unnecessarily hurt someone or been unnecessarily cruel.” She shrugged, helplessly. “And honestly, you can come across a _lot_ of people like that if you know how to tell. There are genuinely nice people all over the world, and if you’ve got supernatural inclinations, you can _sense_ ‘em.”

Dean winced and then forced a laugh out. “Well, at least we know that none of _us_ can be used in the ritual,” he said, shoving his hands into his pocket. “‘Cept maybe Cas, but I’m not sure if grace’d count.”

“You have a very rose-colored view of Castiel,” Jessie said, smirking. Cas frowned at her and said nothing. “Either way, point’s moot. Cas went and developed himself a soul so if he _were_ as innocent as you’re implying, he’d be up for grabs. Luckily,” and at this, Jessie turned back toward the building, pulling her binoculars back toward her face, “ _None_ of us qualify. We’ve all done some fucked-up shit.”

“How the fuck does an angel grow a _soul_?” Meg said, looking almost disgusted. Castiel made an affronted noise.

“They fall in love,” Jessie replied, easy, still staring at the club through her binoculars.

There was a long silence at that and then Dean burst out laughing. “So who’s the lucky lady, Cas? Wedding bells in your future?”

“Yeshua has misphrased herself, _as usual_ ,” Cas said, rolling his eyes. “The love doesn’t have to be romantic in nature, nor toward any single individual. Anna fell in love with humanity, which is why she Fell. She had a soul long before she Fell.” Then he side-eyed Jessie. “Gabriel fell in love with Mary, Mother of Jesus.”

“Yeah, yeah, the ‘your mom’ jokes never get old with him,” Jessie said, sighing. She pulled the binoculars away from her face and pointed. “Four stories, and from what I can tell, each one’s a different party level. The VIP shit goes down on the top floor and that’s where I’m making out the most demonic signatures.” Then Jessie swallowed. “The new moon is tonight, which is when it makes the most sense for this shit to go down.”

“Great,” Dean said. “So, no sleep.”

“No, we’ll sleep,” Jessie said, packing her binoculars away. “Well, _you_ and _Sam_ will. Meg and I _might_ nap, but us and Cas don’t really need to, and we can prepare for tonight.” She glanced at the two of them. “Sam, I dunno about you, but I am _really_ sick of clubs.”

“Hey, at least you don’t have to perform at this one,” Sam said, grinning.

Jessie slung her backpack up onto her shoulders and started toward the fire escape; the others did the same. “Did I ever tell you that the club contacted me? I won, apparently. They were _very_ disappointed that they had to award it to someone else because I was a no-show.” Dean had no idea what they were talking about, but suspected it had something to do with New York City.

Sam laughed, long and loud, all the way down to the ground.

Only Dean took note of the fact that Cas hadn’t mentioned who -- or _what_ \-- he’d fallen in love with.

**\+ + + + +**

Jessie made sure the two brothers were asleep before she called Fel.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Jessie asked. 

“No, I have weekends off at this new school,” Fel said. “I’m at home. What’s up?”

“We have some intel on the place, and on what’s going down,” Jessie said. “It’s a _Go Dokkaebi,_ and they’re trying to create a _bangmang’i_. For the _King of Hell_.”

Fel whistled. “I haven’t heard of any of those being created before; I thought they went out of vogue like two, three hundred years ago. That’s _bad_ news.” Then they paused, and Jessie got a vague feeling of dread from them. “There’s plenty of minor _dokkaebi_ throughout Busan, but I only know of one _Go Dokkaebi_ , and I thought she was friendly. We’ve had lunch together. Hell, the name she’s going by these days is Hyeon, which _literally_ means virtuous.”

“Any weaknesses that you know of?” Jessie asked, leaning against the wall of her room.

Fel sighed. “The old stories say that _dokkaebi_ are objects during the day and people at night. This isn’t _strictly_ fact, but there’s a grain of truth there -- _dokkaebi_ , including _Go Dokkaebi_ , have a soul, and it’s contained in an object, not inside them. To destroy the _dokkaebi_ , you destroy the object that holds their soul. Problem is that it could be literally _anything_ ; old pottery, a tapestry, a stone. I mean, it’d have to be pretty old; the souls can’t be transferred, as far as I know. The object is created when the creature is born, and is whatever they were holding at the time.” 

“How long has it been since a _dokkaebi_ has been born?” Jessie asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard of any since I’ve been here, but I get the feeling that it’s not a common occurrence. Longtime, friendly association with a _dokkaebi_ will turn someone into one, but I don’t know anyone who hangs out with any of them long-term, _mainly_ because they like being human.” Fel sighed. “Her left side will likely be armored in some way; that’s her weak point.”

“You sure you’re not uh. _Infected_?” Jessie asked, unsure of the right terminology to use.

Fel laughed. “I’ve met her twice, and I’ve only come across a few others. I wouldn’t exactly call us _friends_.”

“That wasn’t a no, Fel.”

“I am not turning into a _dokkaebi_ , nor am I currently one,” Fel replied, amused. “Do you need my help with this?”

Jessie considered it, and then shook her head as she answered. “No, I think we’ll be okay. I’d rather keep you out of this, if possible.”

“I appreciate it, deeply,” Fel replied. Then they continued. “By the way, I talked to Busan’s patron _haetae,_ Seonhwa. She’s made no deals to allow Christian demons in her city, and she is _angry_. She’s agreed to give you the week to deal with it before she goes in -- to _feast_.”

“Shouldn’t be an issue, as the ritual’s going down tonight. Pretty sure, anyway. New moon and all.” Jessie sighed. “I won’t fuck up a promise to a spirit again, though, not after last time. Would an offering be offensive?”

Fel laughed. “I doubt she’d turn down a demon to chow down on, but it isn’t necessary.”

Jessie pursed her lips. “I’ll give them a chance to repent, but if they don’t, I’ll see about bringing her something. Peace offering, of sorts, for encroaching.”

“I think she’d like that,” Fel said, amusement coloring their voice again. “I have to go, Jessie -- lesson plans. Good luck. Call me if you need anything.” And they abruptly hung up the phone.

This was bad. No _dokkaebi_ would ever consider leaving their spirit item laying around, being mostly tricksters by nature, and thus, _extremely_ paranoid. Trying to figure out this particular _dokkaebi_ ’s item would be difficult if not impossible. Especially since Hyeon probably wasn’t her actual name, so tracing it would require the physical presence of the _dokkaebi_ in question.

So Jessie squared her shoulders and walked back out into the main room. Cas and Meg were there, looking at a 2D map of the club’s building plans that Meg had illicitly gotten her hands on whlie Jessie’d been talking to Fel. With a flick of her fingers, Jessie made it 3D, and then she spoke.

“Our focus is on the demons. We can’t take out the _dokkaebi_ without a _lot_ more time and effort than we have to spare, so we need a plan to take out the demons, and then we need to figure out how to trap her.” She brought the 3D image closer toward her. “We’ll want to present both her and at least one demon to the city’s patron spirit, as an offering. The patron spirit might know how to take care of the _dokkaebi_.” Then she turned to Meg. “We’ll need subtle shit for this one, not our usual heavy artillery or even angel blades, and probably a _lot_ of holy oil. The club has metal detectors.”

Meg smiled. “I have a contact in Istanbul. I can have some stuff by nightfall.” And with that, she disappeared. 

Jessie turned to Castiel. “I have a plan. It’s not a good plan, but it’s a plan, and it’s all we have to work with. Find out what’s going on at the club tonight as far as the public is concerned. Chances are the bottom floors will be mostly humans, to fend people like us off. I want to know what kind of crowd we’re looking at.”

Cas nodded and disappeared as well. Jessie turned and studied the 3D model and then, using Daum Maps, pulled up the surrounding buildings as well.

And then inspiration struck. She smiled. Meg was going to _hate_ this.


End file.
